Ember: The Fulcrum
by MinP1072
Summary: AU: On their own, after a terrifying encounter with the villainous Nikolai Volkov, Liz & Red have a brief respite to regroup and decide what to do next. Liz works on honing her power and on getting Red to see her as an equal. She thinks she's making good progress — on both — when life takes yet another unexpected and devastating turn. Part 2 of my Ember series.
1. Issue 11: Concept

**A/N: **It's been a terrifically long time since I wrote the first part of this series _(The Long Game),_ so it's fairly likely to be unfamiliar. It's posted here, though, and I'd probably recommend reading it first — not an absolute must, but a lot of what the characters can do and the actions they take may not make a whole lot of sense otherwise.

_The Long Game_ followed canon pretty closely, with a slant; _The Fulcrum_ will borrow from it sometimes, including dialogue, and diverge the rest of the time. So, thanks now to _The Blacklist_ and its writers! Also, credit should go to Mike Mignola, creator of the _Hellboy_ comics and the character of Liz Sherman, whose powers I based our Liz' on.

* * *

The sun shines brightly over white walls and dark brown roofs; touches on bed after bed of cheerful flowers. It beams golden through the unshuttered windows, warming her face and calling to her.

Liz blinks awake, feeling better rested than she has in a long time. She finds herself curled in a nest of soft white sheets and a heavy grey blanket, utterly comfortable, her previous agony just an echo in her bones.

She feels a great deal of contentment and simple pleasure, but thinks she recognizes the flavour that is Red colouring the air. Feeling him this way, quietly happy, hits her with a sense of relief much greater than she would have imagined.

_I need to see him_, she thinks; needs to make sure he is safe and whole, that they have come through their ordeal soundly.

She takes a moment to slip into the adjoining bathroom for an entirely necessary pit stop. As she washes her hands, she winces at her pale reflection, a dark bruise purpling one temple and scrapes and cuts showing on her arms and hands and through a rip in her shirt. She splashes water over her face gingerly; rubs a fingerful of toothpaste over her teeth hurriedly, washing away the stale tastes left by blood and drugs and sleep.

As soon as she's found the hallway, she can smell coffee, and follows the scent to a cozy kitchen. Red has his back to her, facing a leaded greenhouse window over a wide sink. The sight of him — the familiar shorn head, his strong back, her mark on his neck — allows her to take her first real breath; the homey feel of the scene stops her momentarily in her tracks, an ache in her chest that is more wistful than sad.

But he knows she is there, of course he does, and turns around, putting a mug on the counter and stepping to her quickly, his face alight with the same warmth that emanates from him.

"Good morning, Lizzie," he says, his pleasure at seeing her preceding him and wrapping snugly around her. "How are you feeling?"

"Okay," she replies, with a tentative smile. "I think the drug is pretty much gone from my system, and bruises and scrapes don't bother me."

His face becomes serious and he touches the mark on her temple, feather light, as if worried he may hurt her.

"They bother me," he says, his voice deepening. He moves closer to her and flattens his cool palm against her cheek.

More emotion is coming from him than she thinks he realizes — affection and frustration, fear and need, concern and…apprehension? She studies his face carefully, not sure what, if anything, is wrong.

Then it hits her. _Good morning_, he'd said, and it was bright shiny morning sun that had woken her, that glinted now off the steel of the sink. A pit opens in her stomach, dank and unpleasant, and she takes a step back from him. His hand drops to his side, and his emotions withdraw in a lazy coil.

"Red," she says, trying to keep her voice even, trying to ask rather than accuse. "What happened? I thought we were meeting Cooper's men at De Gaulle. Did you meet them while I was sleeping?" His face gives her the answer, but she goes on, not wanting to believe he would deceive her so quickly, so easily. "You should have woken me, but if we…"

"Lizzie," he interrupts, his voice cool and patient. "You know I didn't do any such thing. We are nowhere near Paris, and I have no intention of meeting up with any of Harold's ham-fisted lackeys."

Shock slaps her like ice water, followed quickly by the burning rush of her anger.

"We agreed," she says, slowly at first, then gathering speed and volume as her emotions fire. "We sat there together and _agreed_ to connect with the FBI, to keep our actions above board, to all work _together_. This isn't a joke, Red, it's my job, _my life_. I _promised_ Cooper…"

"But _I_ didn't," he cuts in, his eyebrow raised sardonically. "You've broken no promise, Elizabeth — I've broken it for you. There is no earthly way I will risk you like that right now. We still don't know who in the Post Office we can trust, and I won't chance walking into a trap."

"You had no right to make that decision for me," she snaps, infuriated and steaming, her blood sparking angrily.

"I had every right," he returns. "You—"

"And where's my phone?" she asks, only now conscious that it isn't in her pocket. "Give it back."

He hesitates, then looks away from her. "No," he says quietly, "not now. Not while you're so angry, when you might make a mistake."

"Are you _kidding me?"_ she spits, flushed with fury. "Are you going to ground me too? Send me to my room until I can be 'reasonable'?"

"Elizabeth, don't be ridiculous," he answers sharply, angry himself, now. "I am simply ensuring your safety — _our_ safety, actually, in case you'd forgotten that we are in this together."

The sheer hypocrisy of this makes her choke over her next words, and leaves her sputtering with rage, hands clenching and unclenching as she struggles for control. Struggles to remind herself why control is so necessary to her.

Tendrils of calm come, snake coolly across her skin, settling her stomach and easing the fierce inner tension. She is able to take a deep breath, then another, and opens her mouth to apologize for coming so close to…

Then it hits her.

This calm isn't her own, isn't the result of her long years of focused work and meditation and care. This calm is _his,_ imposed on her just like he has imposed all these decisions, and the betrayal of it makes her sick.

She pushes it away from her without really knowing how, in a blast of anger and hurt and heat that is forceful enough to have him staggering. Tears burn on her cheeks; a warning that she is too close to the edge.

He is looking at her with real regret in his eyes, his face lined and worried. He should be worried, she thinks, and gives him the filthiest look she can muster.

"Never," she says, forcing the words out of her swollen throat. "_Never_ do that again. You don't have the right — _no one_ has the right to control another person like that. Especially not someone they claim to care about."

"Lizzie, I…I am truly sorry. I didn't mean—"

But she doesn't give him a chance to finish making his excuses — which she is sure will be practiced and smooth. The flame is hot and ready inside her, and she is both too incensed to keep talking and afraid, afraid she will hurt him.

She slams out of the kitchen and escapes outside into the quiet green of a shady backyard, leaving him standing in the doorway with a frown furrowing his brow and his eyes dark.

* * *

He gives her time to calm down, wanting their conversation to be free of volatility, hating the way she can't argue without being afraid. Hating what he has done to her. Worried he has permanently broken her trust.

But when he eventually paces cautiously out the door, he sees that he had been wrong — wrong to leave her, wrong to let her walk away, even for a moment. The yard is bare, empty but for a small angry scorch mark in the grass, a few steps from the door. The pretty white gate is open, moving slightly in the mountain breeze. Before he can think, he is dialing, snapping instructions to Grey to search the small town for signs of her.

As he tucks his phone away, his fear rises, sudden and fierce; thick and horrible. To lose her now, after only just having secured her safety, after _arguing_ over securing her safety, would be too cruel. A picture of her, bloody and frightened and nearly broken, flashes through his mind. Then the images come in flood of remembrance.

Lizzie, walking toward him for the first time, proud, curious, defiant.

Fighting fiercely in dark alleyways, channeling her anger and strength.

Aglow with her power beside a burning cabin in the woods, unable to weep.

Her face, lit with delight as her flame flickered in her palm.

Trembling and pliant in his arms; her eyes filled with wonder and need and discovery.

He buries his face in his hands, trying to stop, to see nothing, to _feel_ nothing. He's massively overreacting, she'll be back, she… Weak, suddenly, he drops into a curved wooden chair and tries to control himself. Wonders how long he should wait, trying to balance the need to find her with the possibility of her return while he's gone.

As he debates, knowing he can't wait long, his impatience for action gnawing at him, he hears the _click_ of the gate, and he can breathe again. He lifts his head and watches her walk toward him, hands clenched, posture tight and tense and angry. He feels her resentful fury emanating from her, but welcomes it now, the vitality of her, the reality.

She stops a few feet away, her expression set and stiff, watching him. He stands to face her, putting some effort into making his movements smooth. He extends a hand, her phone resting on his open palm. And then he waits, waits for her to speak.

* * *

Even through her own roiling anger, she can feel the greasy residue of his fear staining the air. It surprises her a little, and she stops moving to take a closer look at his face. It is so drawn and tired that she rethinks what she had been about to say.

"I'm…sorry if I worried you," she says, carefully controlling her tone, taking her phone and shoving it in her pocket without looking at it. She appreciates the gesture, but she also needs to be sure that's not all it is. "I needed time to think; I needed to move — I needed to get away from you." It hurts him; she can see the pain flicker as if she had slapped him across the face, but she cannot relent, not on this. "Red," she continues, "Raymond. I cannot work with you if I can't trust you."

"Elizabeth, I _am_ sorry that I…I didn't intend to influence you that way. It…got away from me."

She raises an eyebrow at him. "You've had a long time to practice control," she answers coolly. "It's hard to believe you do _anything_ by accident."

He bows his head slightly in acknowledgement. "You're right," he says. "But you're wrong, too. When it comes to you, Lizzie, it would seem…all bets are off." He smiles, but there is no humour in it.

"I don't mind being able to sense your feelings," she says, careful again. "To know what you're feeling or thinking. And I know I let you in when we…I mean…" She flushes now; doesn't have the words to say what she means. "It's not right for you to go beyond that and manipulate me to suit your whims."

His face breaks in a terrible way, and she almost wants to take it all back, but it's too true, too important to let go.

"Lizzie," he says, and his voice is so heavy, "I would never…I am truly sorry. I swear to you I didn't think of it that way. I don't want to hurt you."

"Then _stop,"_ she answers fiercely. "Stop dictating, stop making unilateral decisions, stop trying to control everything. Especially me. I won't take it, Red. I'll walk away from you if I have to."

He swallows, hard and thick. "I won't manipulate your emotions again," he says earnestly. "Not like that. Do you believe me?"

Through the stubborn haze of anger, she realizes that she _does_ believe him, and that one of them has to offer trust.

"I want to," she says. "I want to trust you, Red. I want to believe that I can."

"I will do my utmost, Lizzie." He looks so serious that she believes him instinctively, and the horrible knot inside her loosens. "When it comes to your safety, though, it isn't a just a careless whim, it's…you…you must realize, you aren't just a responsibility, an obligation. You are..." He hesitates, his emotions a snarl between them.

"You're important," he says, "And not just to me. I truly believe that I acted in your best interests when I brought you here."

Her eyes soften, but her mouth remains firm. She has the distinct feeling he meant to say something else, but can't read what it might be.

"But look at what you've done," she says back, serious and calm now, determined to make her point. "I've now disobeyed a direct order from my commanding officer, gone against both my superior and the FBI itself; I've betrayed my partner, my friends—"

"No," he cuts in, intent and at least as seriously. "_I_ betrayed them — and every last member of that team will easily believe that I forced your compliance if that's what you tell them."

"That's close enough to the truth," she retorts, but her tone is less heated.

"There are still far too many unanswered questions to stay in close contact, Lizzie. Who is the mole in the FBI? How did Volkov get into the Post Office so easily? How much do all these factions know about you?"

She stiffens at the last, and he nods, reaching to take her hand, to comfort them both.

"It's far too dangerous to trust any of them, at least right now. And I would do far worse," and the sharp chill of his words slices into her, "than tell a few lies to keep you safe."

The rest of her anger eases out of her frame; he can feel her warmth again, can see the nervy tension slip away to be replaced with solemn resolve.

"You can't make these decisions without me, Red," she says quietly. "I'm not a child, and I'm far from helpless. I might have agreed with you," she adds, "if you'd asked."

He hesitates at that, for a moment, then inclines his head slightly.

"You know I don't lie to you," he says slowly. "I will…I will try to be more open about my own plans. _Our_ plans. I suppose I am too used to working alone."

This isn't entirely satisfactory to her, but she can see that the concession is a large one for him, and tell by the unhappy set to his mouth that it is the best she can hope for — for now. They have time, she thinks, to become more comfortable with one another's expectations, to become a real team.

There is such a riot of emotion coming from him, though she thinks he doesn't mean to reveal them. Frustration and a grim sort of resignation; wariness and fear; but also the particular warm surge she associates with his affection. The sun glints off the soft fuzz of his stubbly hair, gilding his head and neck, the loveliness of it softening the rest of her edges away.

She remembers the feeling she'd had on waking — the contented happiness, the sense of utter well-being, her absolute relief in seeing him waiting for her, whole and well. She wishes she could share that feeling with him, and erase the unhappy creases in his brow.

So she reaches out to touch his face, moves close so she can kiss him, to ease the tumult rushing through them both, to reassure him that they are safe — but most of all, because she wants to. Wants to be sure that she still can, that what lies between them hasn't been extinguished.

Her lips meet his, tentative, all of this still so new, and it's a revelation all over again. She sighs at the pleasure of it, and reaches up with her free hand so she can hold him safe. He's so still, even the air around him gone quiet.

Her kiss is no less electrifying for being uncertain, he thinks, entranced by it, by her. When she comes closer, when she cradles him in her hands as if he — _he, _of all people — is something precious, he is unutterably moved. He's afraid to give back, afraid that if he gives a little, his need for her, his longing, will overtake them both.

Daring, her tongue touches his mouth, a gentle flick, like a question. He tastes a little like coffee, a little like some warm spice she can't name. She slides deeper, putting her arms around his neck.

And he is undone.

He wraps himself around her in turn, lost, hands flat on her back, pressing her against him with a murmur of words she can't decipher. They tangle intriguingly for a few long moments; long enough for that fascinating new heat to start to burn inside, long enough that her whole body seems to thrum with a desire she doesn't recognize.

Then he moves gently, tracing the curve of her jaw with his mouth, soft kisses on her neck that make her shiver against him. The effort it takes him to break away, to not just devour her where they stand, is almost more than he can manage. He holds her tightly, cheek pressed to her hair. She lets her arms drop to circle his waist, offering the comfort he needs, knowing somehow just how to soothe him.

"If you need to get away," he says quietly. "I understand. Just...don't go like that, without a word, don't disappear."

She can give him that, she thinks, it's common courtesy really, one that her father had always insisted on and that she can understand.

"All right," she replies, and turns her head so her cheek rests on his shoulder.

They stand like that for a few minutes more, and it's more than comfort.

It feels like home.

* * *

He talks her into another walk after they eat, so he can show off their temporary home, point out the things she needs to know.

"The house belongs to an old friend," he says, tucking her hand into his elbow. "We had many adventures together, once upon a time. Why, I remember one time in Monaco—"

"_Red_," she interrupts laughingly, "where _are_ we?"

"Oh," he chuckles back, "I'd forgotten you didn't know. Welcome then," he says, with a sweep of his free arm as they reach the front gate, "to Grimentz."

She looks dazzled, he thinks, pleased‚ aglow in the clean sunlight, trying to see everything at once.

"We're in the mountains," she says eagerly. "Are they the Alps?"

"Yes," he confirms, "Switzerland. It's quite lovely, isn't it?"

She gazes down the cobbled street, lined with neat white houses and tidy gardens in a riot of colourful blooms.

"The air is so clear," she murmurs. "And look — look at the the flowers."

He can feel her pleasure, the wonder at her surroundings. Through her, he gains a new appreciation for the quiet town. She turns to him with a wistful smile.

"Dad and I always wanted to travel," she says softly. "He would have loved this."

He lets her hand drop so her can wrap his arm firmly around her.

"I think so, too," he says warmly. "And I know he'd be glad that you're safe."

"For now, anyway," she answers with a sigh.

"Chin up, Lizzie," he says, tamping his fears firmly down and smiling broadly. "We'll do well together, don't you think?"

She shoots him a dark look. "That depends on you, I'd say." she says drily, making him laugh.

He urges her into movement again. "All right, then. The first order of business is rest and recuperation — one good night's sleep isn't enough to erase the traces of an ordeal like the one you've just been through."

"_We've_ been through," she says, frowning up at him.

He shrugs. It's fair enough. "Next is a meet in a few days with an old…associate of mine. Used to smuggle American goods into the Soviet Union in the Communist days — he still knows all the players."

"And you think he'll be able to tell us who's likely to be taking over from Volkov?"

"Among other things. I'm a little concerned," he admits quietly, "about who Volkov was really working for."

"You told me that he was FSB," she says, doubt chilling her.

"He certainly _was_," Red confirms. "For many years. But the things he did at the Post Office, the men that he had with him, the drugs he used on you…it all felt _off_, too rough, haphazard. And if Volkov had fallen in with the Mafiya, then the government is still in active play, could be preparing to make a move even now. Anders can tell us one way or the other."

"All right," she says, worried, but glad that he is backing up his earlier promises of transparency with information, thinking — albeit reluctantly — that he is a better partner in this than the FBI.

"Dembe is still in Washington," he adds. "He'll be bringing your things with him, shortly."

It warms her that he would remember their conversation, which seems eons ago now; that he would remember her needs and tend to her. He continues to speak, now, of what they might do after their meeting with this man, Anders, of how they might proceed to both ensure her safety and pinpoint those hunting her.

And despite this uncharacteristic sharing of thoughts and information; despite their physical and emotional closeness, that even now warms her as they walk; she isn't wholly content.

She can't quite rid herself of the niggling thought that a promise to never lie to her is not the same as a promise to tell her everything.


	2. Issue 12: Investigation

"Again, Lizzie."

She rolls her shoulders, closes her eyes, takes a deep breath. The last lingering aches from her encounter with Volkov have disappeared, only to be replaced by the deep muscle soreness that comes with using the fire.

Red had decided that since they have a little time, they should spend it working on Liz. He wants her to refine her control over the fire — to work _with_ it, he says, rather than against it. She's starting to believe that he may be right, that she is capable of a great deal.

He'd been right the last time, after all.

On the third day of his "exercises", she's weary and sore, but Red has lost none of his cheerful enthusiasm and steadfast faith. Shrugging her exhaustion aside with an exhale of breath and opening her eyes again, she lifts her hand in front of her, fist closed. She breathes in, then opens her hand, drawing her fingers over her palm. When her hand is cupped, there it is — a small amber flame, dancing cheerfully in the breeze.

Red beams at her, pride and pleasure clear on his face.

"That's it," he says softly, not wanting to disturb her concentration. "Now, can you extend it? Say, to your elbow, but no further?"

She frowns a little but tries, narrowing her eyes and letting the dance of the flame absorb her. She makes it about halfway up her forearm before the flame dies away with a little _whump_ of displaced air.

She sighs and lets her arm fall, shaking both hands out and shifting on her feet to resettle her weight. But Red is still smiling at her, clearly pleased — it is progress, after all — and she can't help but smile back.

"Let's try something different," he proposes, reaching out and taking her other hand, bringing it between them. "Can you share it? Use it to warm my hand, without letting it free?"

She balks at that, tugging away and shaking her head. "That's not safe," she says firmly. "I'll burn you."

"I don't think you will," he says. "But even if you do, it's a small hurt."

"It's hotter than regular fire," she reminds him, her heart racing with panic. "And even a small hurt is one too many. I can't, Red, don't ask it of me."

He takes her hand again, silencing her immediate protest with a look, and bends his head to place a light kiss on her palm. He closes her fingers over the spot, and then lets go.

"Keep that, then," he says, "to help you stay on track."

The simple romance of it makes her heart thump, and her fingers tighten instinctively as her smile comes back.

"Again, then — just your hand."

_Whump._

It's easier and easier, a fact that delights her. She never imagined she had this strength within her — to control her power enough to join with it, to _use_ it rather than just squash it down and keep it smothered.

She focuses a little harder, thinking, trying to visualize the way Sam taught her to. And it works, _it works,_ as the flame makes a little leap and then burns higher and thin, almost like a laser beam.

Red claps softly in response, a broad smile across his face. "Wonderful, Lizzie! Simply wonderful!" He watches her keenly, then frowns ever so slightly. "Do you need a rest, sweetheart?"

She doesn't want to stop now, not now that she's getting somewhere. "Not yet, Red, thank you." She thinks of something new, and smiles at him to hide it. "A glass of water would be lovely, though."

"Of course," he replies, turning toward the house immediately.

She thinks it's awfully nice to be taken care of, even as she warns herself not to get used to it. _Trust only yourself,_ Sam's voice strong in her head. _You're the only one that you can truly count on._

She shakes it off, not wanting sadness or negative thoughts to ruin her progress. She looks inward to the core of herself instead, finding the centre of the flame deep within. She imagines touching it, almost a stroke, and it seems to leap to her noncorporeal hand. Without words, she tries to impart what she wants, making a picture to share with the flickering orb she imagines.

It feels like a hum inside her, an understanding, an acquiescence. She keeps her breathing slow and even, and opens her hand once more, bringing herself to life. She holds the image she wants inside, calling to the flame to make it real.

She hears Red's familiar step approaching behind her, and turns to him with a brilliant smile. And thrills to the wonder that washes over his face as he watches the small whisper of flame, little more than a spark, leap from fingertip to fingertip as she moves them gently.

* * *

Elated by her progress, and apprehensive about what they may discover the following day, she'd kept them both up late. They had talked for long hours, sharing stories of their lives. He'd told her of meeting Sam as a young man, spun tales of a few of their adventures together — she suspected that he'd edited judiciously, but he'd still given her a new piece of her father.

She'd talked more about herself than she thinks she ever has. He'd smiled, listened, laughed, his face changing utterly in happiness.

But it isn't his face, smiling, strong, handsome, that she dreams of now; nor of the kisses they've shared, the intensity of the emotions between them.

Instead, she dreams of fear, of Stanley Kornish. Of his quiet, unassuming voice, apologizing for the pain he will cause; his hands, digging into her like scalpels, tear after tear of pain; his horrific, anguished screams as he burns alive…

She wakes on a choked shriek, soaked in sweat, the remembered stench of burnt flesh and chemicals a haunting miasma around her. A quick rapping on her door makes her jump, sitting up in a dizzy rush.

_Lizzie?_

The familiar voice helps to centre her, an instantaneous balm to her nerve-wracked system.

"Red, Red," she calls out, her voice tight with sorrow and fear, desperate to clear the dream away.

He is at her side in an instant, his arms around her warm and comforting — always knowing just what she needs without words. Overwhelmed with relief, she buries her face in his neck and lets herself cry.

"Oh, Lizzie," he murmurs. "Hush, sweetheart, it's all right, you're safe, safe here with me." He rubs her back soothingly, encouraging her to curl into him as he gently wraps her in a blanket of affection and reassurance.

She fills herself with him, replacing the tattered remnants of nightmare — his offered emotions, warm and comforting; the strength of his body, holding her close; the spicy scent of his skin that she breathes in, one shuddering gasp at a time.

"There now," he says softly, as her tremors begin to quiet and her breath calm. "Do you want to tell me about it?"

"It was the Stewmaker," she says, small and miserable. "Taking me. Hurting me. But then, the b-burning…"

She drops her eyes, straining to hold onto calm…and then she sees them. Black streaks of scorch marks and ragged burnt holes in the sheets where her fists had clenched and tangled, so she can see the char on the mattress beneath.

"Oh no," she says, her heart shrinking. She pulls away in humiliation. "Oh, Red, I'm so sorry — I'll replace everything, I promise, I–"

"Don't give it another thought," he interrupts firmly. "You aren't responsible for your dreams, after all."

"But I _should_ be," she cries. "I _always_ have to be in control, that's the first rule, the most important rule."

"Don't put so much pressure on yourself," he says. "It won't help, I can assure you."

She wishes, fervently, with her whole heart, that she was different. "_Why can't I just be normal?"_ It's a plaintive wail, a piece of despair she'd locked up as a child, escaping now with her misery.

Red just smiles affectionately, surprising her. "Oh, Lizzie," he says, tucking an errant piece of hair behind her ear, making it a caress. "Even without this unique power, you'd never be anything less than extraordinary."

She flushes again, with pleasure this time, and leans her face against his hand. "_Red."_

He kisses her lightly, soft and sweet. She lets her eyes slip closed, drained and exhausted from the tumult of emotions. Red gives her a long, evaluating look, then stands up, holding out a hand to her. "Come now, up you get."

"What? Why?"

"You can't sleep here — it's a bit of a mess. You'll never get comfortable again. We can share."

"Oh," she says, starting to shake again. Panic is back, thick and choking. "Oh, no, Red, _no, _what if it happens again? I could really hurt you, maybe even–"

"Nonsense," he says cheerfully. "Do you trust me, Lizzie?"

"I–I want to," she says. "But this isn't–"

"All right, then — it's simple. Come with me, we both need more sleep."

Dazed, frightened, unsure, she takes his hand and follows him across the hall. In his room, he walks around the bed to give her space, then lies down and stretches out comfortably. She hesitates for a long, heavy moment, then curls up on the edge of the mattress, as far from him as she can get.

His warm chuckle floats across the dark. "Oh, Lizzie," he says, his tone rich and fond. "This is _not_ how I prefer to share a bed."

Even as she blushes red, unseen and hopefully _unsensed,_ a long arm snakes over her, tugs at her gently. She rolls reluctantly to lie at his side, her head cushioned on his shoulder.

"Red," she starts nervously, her system jumping.

"Relax," he murmurs, kissing the top of her head in a gesture of pure comfort. "I'll keep us both safe, sweetheart."

And she wants to believe him, wants it enough to close her eyes and let herself drift away, safe under the protective cloak of his care.

* * *

She blinks awake, when morning comes, in a cozy cocoon of blankets and man. They have twisted in their sleep to spoon together, his body cradling hers in a protective curl.

She'd given up imagining what it would be to share her life with another person a long time ago. Now, she is filled with a pleased contentment that surprises her even as it saddens her, even as she tells herself not to get used to it.

She can tell by his slow, even breathing that Red is still asleep; unable to resist the lure of pretending, she snuggles back into his warm embrace with a sleepy sigh. And just for a moment, lets herself imagine starting each day this way, surrounded by comfort and safety. By love. Living a _normal _life, the kind she has dreamt of since she was small. The kind she gave up on long ago.

All too soon, there's a drowsy rumble of awareness behind her, the arm around her tightening in welcome, warm breath on her neck, and then a press of lips, somehow soft and raspy at once. His body behind her is soft and warm, but also not — it intrigues her, and she gives an experimental little wriggle of her hips.

There's a hum of breath, barely a sound at all, against her skin, then — "Elizabeth?"

"Good morning," she says, soft and shy.

"It certainly is," he replies, amused. "Did you sleep well, then, Lizzie?"

"I did," she answers, and even she can hear the surprise in it. "I never thought it would be so…comforting to have someone beside me."

For a moment, there's nothing at all, not even a breath.

Then, quiet and a little sad, "It can be the most wonderful thing in the world, sweetheart."

The pure empathy and mirrored loneliness in his voice make her heart trip, and she squirms around in his arms so they are face to face.

"Red," she says solemnly. "Don't be sad. Neither of us is alone anymore." And, daring, she kisses him, light and sweet.

When she draws back, his eyes are closed, his face creased in an expression that she can't read. She strokes his cheek gently, and he leans into her hand, then covers it with his own.

"Yes," he agrees. "There's the two of us now."

Warm right through with a wash of affection — his, hers, she can't really tell and doesn't care — she kisses him again.

Then again, and again, wrapping herself around him so that he can feel as warm and safe as she does. He tightens his arms around her with a murmur of approval, then his mouth trails down to her throat, tracing the lines of it, hot and wet. It makes tingles shoot through her, no longer new and strange, but thrilling and dangerously addictive.

She pushes against him eagerly, her whole system thrumming with what she's beginning to recognize as need. He growls, deep and low, and rolls his weight over her so she's on her back beneath him, all his hard and soft places meeting hers, his heat surrounding her.

She makes a noise, deep in her chest, one she's never heard before — an animal noise of desperate want. She can _feel_ the jolt it gives him, and the following hesitation of his whole being as he lifts his head to look at her. He's smiling at her, but she can taste his regret on the air.

"Elizabeth," he murmurs, lips brushing her throat one last time as he shifts his weight so he can touch her face.

"I know," she says, sighing and loosening her grip on him. "No need to rush; there's time."

He laughs then, and it sounds and feels like real happiness, and he kisses her one more time, a cheerful smack on the lips.

"I do find your pique rewarding though, Lizzie," he says teasingly, rolling to lay beside her on his back, collecting himself. "Feel free to sulk."

"Charming," she retorts, then laughs too, because he's right, because she isn't in any real hurry either. "Come on, then," she continues, hopping out of bed. "Busy day ahead."

* * *

It's a bit of a drive to Bern, he tells her as they eat, so they'll leave right after breakfast. The day is beautiful again, so she sits outside on the stoop waiting for him with her arms wrapped around her knees, and lets herself wonder what it would be like.

How it would be, to just stay gone and travel the world, exploring all its wonders and hidden places. Not a _normal_ life, to be sure, but one with normality in it — a partnership, companionship. She could be useful, fighting for him. Or would Red leave his criminal enterprises behind to keep her with him? She isn't sure, can't yet tell how much of what he does is of necessity, and how much is just his way of life.

She wonders if she cares.

As they head north, snug in the rear of the ubiquitous black Mercedes with Red's man Grey behind the wheel, he talks endlessly. Stories of himself and Anders, putting together shipments of American goods to smuggle into Russia — nothing licentious either, but everyday luxuries like soda and candy bars, nylons and makeup.

"My God," he says with a laugh. "The look on the custom agent's face, Lizzie, when Karl ran off without his pants…"

She dissolves into laughter along with him, and then sighs, snuggling back into her seat.

"Tired?" he asks. "Go ahead and rest, sweetheart. I'll wake you before we get there."

She thinks briefly that she shouldn't, that she should take the opportunity to ask some of her many questions — about her birth parents, their experiments, the FSB. Instead, she shifts so that she can rest her head on his shoulder, close her eyes, and drift. Somewhere between asleep and awake, scenes of her own life play across her mind.

Herself as a child, weeping in terror and heartbreak, Sam beside her with a helpless look on his face — she'd just set her bed on fire again, and refused to be comforted in the fear she would hurt him.

The gentle middle-aged woman, Malinie, that Sam had found to help teach her yoga and meditation — those quiet hours some of the most treasured of her childhood.

Sam teaching her to box — the flip side of dealing with her abilities — and the beam of pride he'd worn the first time she knocked him down. She relives it, dreamlike, the feeling of her small fist glancing off the punch pad to hit him smack on the nose, hard enough to snap his head back and catch him off balance.

There'd been blood on his face when he'd sat up — she had been horrified, but Sam had laughed and hugged her tightly.

"Always put everything you have into it, Butterball, if you're going to throw a punch," he said cheerfully. "It's the only way to do it."

His voice fades away — warm, familiar, comforting — as Red shakes her gently awake, or at least, back into herself. The car is just coming to a stop outside a long, low building that she supposes is a warehouse, although it is very clean and well kept.

"Does Anders work here?" she asks, shaking herself into alertness.

Red is frowning as he looks past her. "I don't know," he answers cautiously. "I've always met him at home in the past. Grey," he continues, voice sharpening in command. "With us, please."

They walk in all together, Grey in front, Red with his hand resting reassuringly on the lower curve of her back. Inside, the wide open space, clearly empty, bright and well lit, eases her tension. She notes absently that there is very little in the room at all, the main feature being a catwalk above them, running around the walls like a second floor.

The only other thing in the room is a shortish, older man with a kind face and a wild crown of white hair.

"Ah, Raymond," he says, extending his hands to enclose Red's in a hearty handshake.

"Karl, hello," Red answers warmly. "It's been entirely too long."

Anders smiles at Liz in a friendly way. "And this is…?"

"My associate," Red says smoothly. He glances at her too, and winks. "Ember."

She can't help the grin that flashes over her face in return. She'd almost forgotten the name that she'd given herself in that hazy time. They share a moment of warm amusement — but it's quickly overwhelmed by the low-level anxiety he is broadcasting and she is unsettled. She scans the empty room again and again, although she can't see anything but themselves, and Grey's back, guarding the door.

She takes a few steps away from the two men as they talk, then a few more, rubbing her hands up and down her arms slowly. And then, a noise, just a small one that makes her look up sharply.

And that's when it happens.

With a series of thumps and hisses, ropes are dropping, and men in black combat gear are flooding the room, separating her from Red and shouting to one another unintelligibly.

Guns are suddenly everywhere and Red is calling for her; there's too many people between them, though she fights to reach him. Blow after blow is exchanged in the fierce dance of a battle; although she's avoiding the guns with relative success, she is quickly in danger of being overwhelmed.

"Lizzie!" Red's voice reaches her over the tumult, clear and strong. "Do what you have to do…"

His voice is muffled in the melée of bodies surrounding her, but she knows what he means. She smashes through the immediate surge of fear and denial that rises to meet the suggestion of intentionally using the fire against another person — it's easier to do than she'd thought it would be.

She reaches within, knowing that she must, and the familiar flicker starts in her hands…but then her mind is flooded with the remembered stench of burning flesh and the flame skips away, evading her grasp.

And it's already too late to try again — hands are on her, holding her still even as she struggles and kicks.

"Hold her!" A rough voice behind her, and she's so afraid now, so afraid.

"Red!" she screams out, filled with the abject terror that results from her fear mixing with his. "_Red!"_

But then there's a sharp bite at the side of her neck, like the sting of a bee, and almost instantly, her vision begins to darken, the room around her dissolving.

"Red," she mumbles, forcing out the word as she drops in the waiting arms of her captors.

Her last conscious thought is that she hears him answer, desperate and hoarse, _Elizabeth, FIGHT…_

Then she is gone, fallen into the waiting black.


	3. Issue 13: Hypothesis

He'd been wary when they entered the warehouse, but he hadn't expected _this._ This swift influx of mercenary men on a distinct mission, one that worries him deeply.

He battles hard and fast — they were separated immediately, and something inside him screams that it means a danger he hadn't foreseen. His hand-to-hand isn't his strongest suit, but it's good enough to make this a fair fight.

But he's distracted when he starts to feel her panic; they're focusing hard on Liz, leaving only enough men to keep Red from getting to her, from taking out his gun and changing the odds. He doesn't want to give away her secrets, but these people clearly know what they are here for — and if he has his way, there won't be anyone left to tell tales anyway.

"Lizzie!" he yells, as loudly as can. "Do what you have to do…"

Because if she doesn't…

Then she's screaming his name and her fear is so vibrant in the air that he becomes frantic; he kicks and pummels himself into enough free space that he can pull out his weapon and start shooting to kill. But then, then she drops from his awareness as suddenly the flick of a switch and he can't see her anywhere.

Another mad rush of movement, three quick shots — he's hit once, just a graze on the leg, and someone is calling his name. _Dembe is here,_ he thinks, with overwhelming relief. As his eyes scan the room for the other man, he realizes that the enemy is either dead, dying, or gone.

And Elizabeth is nowhere to be seen.

Although he'd already known she was gone, taken, he still feels the loss like a hammer blow.

"Raymond," Dembe says, worry heavy in his voice. "What happened here?"

As Red limps over to him, he sees that Dembe, too, has been hit, is bleeding down one arm — as usual, though, Dembe seems unfazed. Grey is nowhere to be seen, and Red's growing rage hits a sharp spike.

"More betrayal," he says grimly. "They've taken Elizabeth — and I can't even say for certain who they were."

"Anders is dead," Dembe says, equally grim. "We'll need to search the bodies."

Red nods shortly and moves to the closest body, no time to waste. This one's still breathing, eyes glinting in the fluorescent lights.

Red crouches down, tilts his head to make eye contact.

"Who do you work for?" he asks, tone almost conversational.

The man on the floor coughs, spitting blood onto the floor. "I won't tell you anything," he says, voice without inflection. "You'll never find her."

"You're mistaken," Red says calmly, though his innards roil uncomfortably. He pats the mercenary gently on the cheek. "But it needn't concern you any longer."

He slips his other hand under the man's head, and with a quick, fierce, measured twist, snaps his neck.

He's moving on before the dead man's eyes go dark, completely focused on his macabre task.

* * *

Pain is all she's aware of as a hazy consciousness returns, her body throbbing like one giant torn muscle and her head pounding in an agony so severe she can't even begin to think of opening her eyes.

She's terribly cold, in a strange and empty way.

She focuses on breathing, in and out, slow and even, and gradually the pain recedes enough that she can hear voices around her. They're unfamiliar, though one is accented in a way she almost recognizes but can't put a name to.

…_correct dosage…problems with her heart rhythm…most of the bruising is healed…how much longer?_

She can't make sense of anything that's being said, and fear starts to shorten her breaths. She tries to raise a hand, clear her throat, anything to indicate she's awake, but everything feels so heavy and she's so weak and tired. Where is he, her companion, protector, friend…she can't think of his name for a long moment, and it drives her fear into overdrive.

Far enough that something starts beeping and there's a flurry of new movement around her; a hand on her wrist, checking her pulse. Someone forces an eyelid open, _Elizabeth?,_ a bright pinpoint of light that makes her wince away.

"R-Red," she says painfully, her voice harsh and hoarse from disuse, remembering the word in a flash, the immense relief of it making her relax.

"Push 30 more," the accented voice says, strident, in charge. "We're nowhere near ready for her yet."

She tries to say something else — a question, a protest, a demand, _anything_ — but all that comes out is a pale moan.

Then, a blanketing darkness embraces her again, and all thought slips away.

* * *

He's enraged and terrified at once, and it isn't a good combination. He and Dembe left the bloody warehouse fairly certain that Elizabeth's captors are FSB, which meant Volkov had been working for the mob — or possibly playing both sides.

Which meant twice as much to worry about, and far too much potential for terrible things.

He paces the house in Grimmentz endlessly, trying not to see her in every room, trying not to imagine what could be happening to her now.

It's already been a week.

How could it all unravel so quickly? How could he have let Sam down so completely?

How could she, this elusive wisp of fire and flame, have come to mean so much to him?

He downs another two fingers of Oban, alcohol now the only way he can control his fluctuating emotions. He's just wondering if he'll have to crack and call Cooper when the bang of the front door tells him Dembe is back.

The other man is hefting a large box when he comes into the kitchen, and Red waves absently at the table.

"Did you bring everything?"

Dembe nods, leaning back against the counter and appraising Red carefully.

"I needed a van," he says. "It's behind the house. Everything from Sam's storage space, and one box from their apartment."

"Just one box?" Red wonders how much anger he has left in him to feel. Does it build exponentially, feeding itself over a lifetime? Or will it one day run out, and leave him empty, a miserable husk of a man?"

"I did tell you, someone cleaned it out," Dembe is saying. "All that was left other than food were a few linens, bits and pieces of clothing. Nothing even remotely personal, and nothing at all of Sam's."

Frustration tangles with the fury now, because he can't fathom what they have planned, at all.

"One more thing," Dembe says, and he sounds hesitant now. "I have word on Grey."

* * *

_Ault is a beautiful place,_ he thinks, _there's that at least._ Although it's the wrong season for it to truly shine. The day is overcast, the sea below him steel-coloured and restless, the ground around him scattered with puddles left from the early morning rain.

At least it's not a time for tourists, the man he has come to confront the only other person to be seen all along the coastline. He stops walking when he reaches the lonely figure at the edge of the white cliff, and joins him in staring out over the waves.

"Newton."

The other man turns his head slightly. "So — it's finished?"

Where is the rage, now that he needs it? All he can feel is a weary heaviness of spirit that weighs him down like an anchor.

"If you had come to me, I could have helped you. We could have avoided all this." All this ugliness. "But now we can't."

Grey looks at him now, his face pained, but resigned. "They threatened my family."

Red sighs, because he understands; because it makes no difference.

"Of course they did." Which is why it's smarter to have no one, to care for nothing — but he's broken that rule himself, hasn't he?

"I'm sorry," Grey says suddenly, "about Agent Milhoan. I don't know anything about what happened."

"Oh, don't you? Are there degrees to betrayal, Newton?"

He grills the once faithful lieutenant intensely, driven by fear and need. He focuses closely on the other man's expressions and body language, using what he knows about human nature to guide him. As always, he'd been fairly certain of what the answers would be before he'd started asking the questions.

There are no surprises.

When he's done, at last, Grey is sweating lightly, his face drawn, eyes wet.

"I'm telling the truth, Mr Reddington, I swear I am."

"I believe you," Red says, his voice chillier now. "If I didn't, we wouldn't be here, having this conversation. We'd be somewhere much less pleasant, having a significantly different conversation."

Grey gets paler, somehow — then nods and looks back at the horizon, his body slumping into itself as if wishing it could collapse.

"Newton, I'll take care of your family, whatever they need." Because there had been many good deeds done, to at least somewhat balance out these last bad ones.

"My wife," Grey says, meeting Red's eyes again. "She has no idea. If you could make it look like an accident, for her."

"Look out at the water," Red answers. He waits until Grey is facing away again, then slides the plastic bag out of his pocket and whips it over Grey's head, pulling tight. "Just look out at the water."

* * *

It's not really that much later when he climbs back into the car, meets Dembe's somber gaze in the rearview mirror with a slight nod. Then he lets his head tip back against the seat, his eyes closing.

"Our information was correct, then? Newton only passed along details on your movements, nothing else?"

Red grunts an assent. "But it leaves us with a much bigger problem, doesn't it?"

"Finding Elizabeth may prove to be somewhat difficult."

Red laughs aloud at this ridiculous understatement, and it makes him feel a little better.

"Who else do we know with ties in the right places?"

Dembe hesitates, then looks at him in the mirror again. "What about Dom?"

Red frowns, thinking. His first instinct is to say no, that Dom will refuse to help on principle, but maybe, for Lizzie… For Lizzie, he can face a man he thought he'd never see again. For Lizzie, that man might help him.

"We'd have to go back to the States," he says slowly. "If they've taken her into Russia…"

"We'll go there," Dembe says with a shrug. "As former KGB, Dom may know — or have the contacts to find out. And I can try and track her property, do another pass through the apartment."

Red nods. "All right then," he says. "Home again, home again."

* * *

Awareness is a slow, lethargic process, like wading through cotton wool. There's no real pain this time, but her limbs are stiff and numb — it's difficult to move. Her mouth is dry, her lips cracked; her eyes sting at the brush of air when she opens them.

Just how long has she been lying here?

She manages to get her arms out from under the sheet that covers her, untangling the IV tube she finds there. Other than the IV site, she is clean of any apparent interference — no other patches or monitoring — even the bruises and scrapes she's certain that last battle must have caused are conspicuous only by their absence.

A much longer struggle, one that involves the unpleasant discovery of a catheter, has her sitting up on the side of the bed, sweaty from the exertion.

_What's wrong with me?_

Looking down at herself, she isn't wearing a standard hospital gown, but heathery grey nightshirt that feels soft on her skin. Looking around, she's not in a hospital _room_ either — it's clearly institutional, but with much more effort made to make it comfortable and attractive.

_I must be with Red._ The thought is such an intense relief that she nearly collapses again. Right on the heels of that thought is the question of where he is — knowing him, it seems odd to wake entirely alone.

She gathers herself and stands up, her legs wobbly and unsure beneath her. Leaning on the IV pole for support, she walks slowly around the bed, heading for the door. She stops when she catches movement in the corner of her eye; she turns painstakingly to see a mirror, and feels faint all over again.

_My hair…_ She fingers the blunt ends of the slightly overgrown bob in surprise. It seems bizarre that someone would have cut her hair while she lay unconscious — what possible reason could there be? Her face looks different too, somehow, a little…rounder? Fuller?

She starts looking more closely at her surroundings, confusion and curiosity overcoming her apprehension. There's a framed photo on the dresser below the mirror — it's her, laughing in a black sweater, a sunny park in the background, and with her…a stranger? She thinks for a moment that she recognizes the photo, but she doesn't know the man beside her, his arm around her shoulders and a beaming smile on his face. He's good looking, with dark messy hair, black-framed glasses, just a hint of stubble, clear blue eyes.

But who is he? _What's happening?_

Anxiety starts to rise again, and she picks up the photo to look at it more closely. The noise of the door opening makes her turn, too quickly — she has to fall back against the dresser, clutching the edge with her free hand.

Two men enter the room, heads together in quiet conversation. One is clearly in charge, in a neat and formal suit and tie, with a heavy clipboard in his hand; he has wavy grey hair and dark eyes that look kind.

Beside him, in a rumpled plaid shirt and faded jeans, is the man from the photograph in her hand.

They both stop short when they see her standing there, and the three of them just stare at each other for a long, shocked moment.

Then, both strangers burst into speech, talking together in a tumult of words.

"Ah, Agent Keen, how wonderful!" the doctor exclaims.

But the younger man is effervescent with happiness. "Liz!" He's around the bed in a rush, grabbing her up into a fierce embrace. "You're awake, thank god! I was starting to think…"

She wrenches away, breaking his hold and stumbling backward, landing hard against the wall.

"Liz? What's wrong?" Shock and concern, hands still stretched out for her.

"Agent Keen, perhaps you should sit down," the doctor says gently.

She pushes herself fully upright, her heart pounding in fear. "Why do you keep calling me that?" she demands, hiding her terror in anger. "Who _are_ you people? And _what the hell_ is going on?"

"Liz, it's _me,"_ the younger man says, stepping closer again.

"Stay away from me," she rasps. Her voice is rusty with disuse, and she wonders again, frightened, how long she has spent unconscious. She reaches inside for the flame, for some way to defend herself.

But.

There's nothing there. No answering spark, no glimmering core waiting for her hand. No heat in her blood, her embers gone cold and dark.

She feels sick and lost; she longs for Red with a yearning so fierce it hurts.

"Liz, please, talk to me," the younger man begs, close enough now to reach out and touch her face.

She flinches back, banging her head on the wall with sharp smack. Desperate and terrified, she smashes the photograph in her hand against the dresser beside her and snatches up one of the resulting shards of glass. She grips it tightly, ignoring the slice of pain, and holds it between herself and this strange man who knows her name.

"_Don't touch me,"_ she hisses. "I want some answers, and I want them _now."_

"Agent Keen…"

"_Stop calling me that!"_ The shriek hurts her throat, and startles the younger man into taking a few steps back from her, his hands held up in a gesture of appeasement.

"Elizabeth," the doctor says. "It's important for you to keep calm. You've just woken, and your body is still weak. I'm Dr Wilkes; I've been taking care of you. You have nothing to be afraid of, I promise you."

"How do I know you're telling the truth? I have no reason to believe you."

"Do you have a reason not to?" the doctor asks simply, smiling at her.

She frowns at him, angry and afraid. "Oh, I don't know, how about — you've abducted me and are holding me captive?"

The doctor looks taken aback, but the other man steps forward again, a pleading look on his face.

"Liz, it's _me,"_ he says earnestly. When she just stares at him, waiting for more, he pushes a hand through his hair a bit self-consciously. "Your husband," he says. "Tom."

And that appears to be it, the last straw.

Her legs crumple beneath her, and the last thing she sees before darkness claims her again are a stranger's hands, reaching for her.

* * *

Her head throbs from its knock against the wall when she wakes up. She's lying in bed again, but this time, someone's there, because they're holding her hand.

_Red,_ she thinks, with a wave of relief. It must have all been some sort of bizarre dream; maybe she has a fever, an infection.

Her wide smile is already forming as she opens her eyes to see a stranger, who smiles back.

"Liz," he says happily. "You're back. You fainted — are you okay?"

She tugs her hand away, and his face falls.

"My head hurts," she says warily. "And I want to know what's going on. Where's Red?"

The man — had he said his name was Tom? — looks puzzled.

"Red what?" he asks. "Are you cold? Do you need another blanket, a sweater? I can–"

"Reddington," she breaks in impatiently, pushing herself to sit up and look at him eye-to-eye. "My…partner. He was with me when I was injured, taken, he'd never leave me alone." A thought occurs to her, one that sickens her, but she has to ask. "Is he hurt? D-dead?"

"Liz…" The stranger named Tom hesitates, an odd look on his face. "You don't have a partner — you work with a team. And you aren't here because you were injured, you… This isn't a hospital. It's a…it's sort of a recovery centre."

He looks pleased with this explanation, and she narrows her eyes, suspicious.

"Don't prevaricate," she snaps. "It's obnoxious. Tom, is it?"

"You know it is," he says, hurt. "Liz, I'm your _husband."_

"I don't…" This makes no sense, she isn't married, she _can't_ get that close to anyone, and anyway…

She shakes off this confusion impatiently — first things first, her father always said.

"What do you mean, recovery centre?"

"For people with…look, Liz…" He looks increasingly uncomfortable as he speaks, taking off his glasses to rub at his eyes, then takes her hand again.

"After your father died, you…you were really depressed," he says heavily. "You were having trouble just getting out of bed in the morning. I thought…then things seemed to be getting a little better, and then Hector Lorca escaped and attacked you. None of your physical injuries were serious, but mentally…it was like…you just turned off. You stopped talking, eating; it was like you weren't there anymore, inside."

The wrongness of the story he's telling grates — not because it's completely ridiculous, but because it takes some things that she knows are real and turns them around. Like a story of the life of a different Liz, in a different place.

It's disorienting.

"So what are you saying? I've been…in a coma? For how long, a month?" She knows he's lying, but…her stiff limbs, her weakness, the emptiness she has inside her…

"They called it unresponsive catatonia," he says flatly. "Not unconscious, just not…present."

He smiles again now, and if that clear-eyed look of joy is false, then this man is an outstanding actor. "This is the first time you've moved or spoken in six weeks."

He leans in suddenly, as if on impulse, and kisses her on the lips, cool and light.

She flinches — she can't help it, because everything about this is discordant and wrong, wrong, wrong. "Don't do that," she says, the warning clear in her voice.

He is instantly crestfallen, and despite all her better instincts, she feels badly for him.

"I'm sorry," he says sadly. "I'm just so happy to have you back. Do you–do you really not remember me?"

"I've never seen you before in my life," she says, the unvarnished truth. (It is the truth, _it is.)_ "And I certainly haven't been catatonic for six weeks. After Lorca and the Stewmaker, I…"

"The what?" Tom interrupts, incredulous. "The Stewmaker? Sounds like a villain from a James Bond movie or something, not a real person."

"He was hiding his identity," she snapped, uncertainty breeding anger. "It wasn't his actual name."

"So…a mystery villain with a secret identity?"

She's been getting increasingly agitated over the course of this conversation, and…still nothing happens insider her. No answering spark, no spiraling heat.

Just emptiness.

As much as she has hated this strange ability over her lifetime, she now longs for it, for the certainty of its power, for the strength it gives her.

Frightened and alone, she jerks her hand out of Tom's grasp and covers her face for a long minute. She wants her father, with his unwavering love and belief in her; she wants Red, with his steadfast encouragement and warm affection.

Look, why don't I get the doctor," the man called Tom says gently. "I'm sure he can explain things a lot better than I can." He stands up, patting her shoulder a little awkwardly, then sighs and kisses the top of her head before he slips out of the room.

Alone, _so alone,_ she brings her knees up and wraps her arms around them, staring at the door, waiting.

She focuses on Red desperately; builds the image of him in her mind. He can feel her emotions, always seeming to know what she needs before she knows it herself. Surely if she tries hard enough, he will feel her panic, her need, her loss. Surely he will hear her screaming, and come to her. Surely he will come to her, and help her make reality back into what she needs it to be.

But no matter how hard she pushes — and she puts everything she has into it, until her temples pound and her vision goes black — there is no answer but the sharp, icy shards of her own fear.

"Oh, Red" she whispers, wanting him more than ever, yearning for him with everything she has. "Red, where are you?"

* * *

_Oh, Red…_

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, en route from France to Maryland, Red's head comes up sharply, listening, the back of his neck prickling with sudden awareness.

"Lizzie?" he breathes, nearly soundless, opening himself, searching for her.

_Red, where are you?_

He heard her call, he _knows_ he did.

"I'm coming, sweetheart," he vows aloud, fierce, determined. "I'm coming for you; wait for me."

* * *

**A/N: **I need to give an additional shout out here, to the Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode _Normal Again_. It's not the only place I've encountered the waking-up-in-a-mental-hospital-wtf plot, but it was one of the first, the most effective, and the one that made the most impact, for sure. I hope I do the trope at least a little justice.


	4. Issue 14: Observation

When Tom brings Dr. Wilkes back into the room, she's managed to calm down, to ready herself for the interrogation she is sure will follow.

But the doctor just sits in the chair beside her bed and smiles at her. She looks from him to Tom, who looks overwrought. Neither of them speaks.

"So, what do you want from me?" she asks bluntly. "Why have you brought me here?"

"Liz, I told you–" Tom starts, but Dr. Wilkes holds up a hand.

"Why do _you_ think you're here, Elizabeth?"

"Really?" she returns, barely able to restrain the instinctive eye roll. "You _do_ know I'm a trained psychologist, right?"

Dr. Wilkes chuckles. "No tricks," he says genially. "I honestly want to know."

She frowns, skeptical, then shrugs. "Okay," she says. "I think you want to interrogate me, that you'll torture me if necessary. I think you're looking for my father's research; that you want to know how he achieved what he did."

"And what was that? Was your father a scientist?"

"You know he was," she snaps, impatient. "He was a parapsychologist; he succeeded in stimulating psychic abilities in ordinary people."

"Liz, that's ridiculous!" Tom bursts out. "Your father was a reformed small-time crook who ran a pawn shop, for Christ's sake."

"Not Sam," she answers, sly now. "My biological father. Or didn't you know I was adopted?"

Tom just sighs. "Of course I did. Do. You and Sam were so close, though — you don't talk about your biological parents. I thought you didn't really think about them."

That gives her pause, because before Raymond Reddington came bulldozing into her life, she _hadn't._

"So," Dr. Wilkes says, taking back control. "You believe your biological father was a…sorry, what was the term?"

"A parapsychologist," she mutters, thinking, thinking.

"And we," he gestures to indicate himself and Tom, "have abducted you to try and steal his research? To…continue his experiments? Are we criminals?"

"I believe you work for an obscure branch of the FSB," she says stubbornly. "Russian intelligence," she adds, in answer to the doctor's querying look.

"That's very interesting," Dr. Wilkes says. "Have we been searching for you for a long time? Why don't we just ask you nicely?"

"Firstly, because I'd assume you'd know that I wouldn't just tell you. Secondly, I expect…I expect you're afraid of me." Defiant now, because she knows she can't back up what she has to say next. At least, not now.

"I'm sure you're an excellent FBI agent," the doctor says, with another infuriatingly kind smile. "But you're only one woman."

"I'm pyrokinetic," she says, _willing_ the fire to leap to life, to flare back into being.

There's nothing but silence, silence and empty air.

"_Really?_" Dr. Wilkes says finally, sounding fascinated. "Why don't you tell me about that?"

So she does — the short version of the story of her life. Growing up as a "powered" child, in an old farmhouse in Nebraska with her adoptive father. Learning to meditate and then fight as methods for dealing with the fire's aggression. The two of them moving to the city for her education, then the FBI — first the mobile psych unit, then training at Quantico to become an accredited profiler.

And then Reddington.

Entering her life like a whirlwind and changing everything; changing _her._ Teaching her that the flame isn't an enemy to be conquered, but a part of her to be embraced.

She talks for a long time, even with as little detail as possible. Dr. Wilkes takes a _lot_ of notes, his face intent and fascinated. When she runs out of words, her story finished — though hopefully not her life — the doctor sits back with a sigh and a slow shake of the head.

"Simply astounding," he says. "I don't think I've _ever_ seen anything like this, in all my years of treatment."

"Doctor, this is…" Tom looks both devastated and exhausted, his body slumped in his chair and his hair a choppy mess from the number of times he's run his hands through it.

She feels badly for him for a brief moment, he looks so miserable, before she remembers that he's one of her captors.

He tries again. "Is…is Liz going to be okay?"

"Don't worry," the doctor replies soothingly. "Now that Elizabeth is fully awake and cognizant of her real surroundings, she will be able to heal properly."

"My _real_ surroundings?" Liz says, wary.

"My dear, surely you can see that very little of what you described to us can possibly be real? Magical powers, dastardly villains, vigilante crime fighting? A criminal mastermind with a heart of gold?"

"But I…"

"No," the doctor continues, overriding her weak protest. "What we need to do now is discern exactly what's going on. When your husband first brought you here, the diagnosis was a severe mental breakdown brought on by your depression, and the added stress of the attack you suffered.

"But now, with the revelation of this incredibly complex, multilayered delusion…well, we must consider that you may have suffered a complete psychotic break."

"I'm not crazy," Liz bursts out, furious. "I don't know what you think this attempt at manipulation is going to get you, but–"

"Now, now, Elizabeth, you must stay calm," Dr. Wilkes says. "No one is trying to manipulate you. I'm here to help you."

"Liz, please, listen to him," Tom pleads. "I want our life back — I want _you_ back. I–I love you."

She's waited her entire life for romantic love, a partner, someone to say those words to her and mean them. Had given up on ever hearing them, of ever being able to have that bond. And now someone has, but they are empty and meaningless and it cuts like a knife.

"I don't know you," she snaps, wanting to cry, wishing she could just kill them both and run. "All I want from either of you is my freedom."

Tom starts to say something else, but Dr. Wilkes stands, forestalling him. "I think we can all agree that this is best place for you, for the time being. Visiting hours are about over," he says gently. "Your dinner will be here soon, Elizabeth, and a nurse will come and attend to you.

"You and I will speak again tomorrow. Try to get a good night's sleep."

He heads for the door and waits there for Tom, who stands beside the bed looking down at her wistfully.

"Try and remember us," he says softly. "I miss you."

He touches her cheek, then turns and walks swiftly away without looking back.

Liz is left alone to think, to mull over what she's been told — and to plan for her escape.

* * *

He vacillates, in a way very unlike himself, while Dembe drives. Finally, he gives in to Liz' insistent voice in his head, and dials the phone.

"Harold!" he says brightly, shields up. "How are things?"

"Reddington, you son of a bitch," is the much less pleasant, infuriated response. "Where the hell have you been? And where is Agent Milhoan? If you've done something–"

"I didn't call you to answer questions," he interrupts coolly. "I called to ask whether or not you've found your mole."

"_Our_ mole?" Cooper shoots back. "_You're_ the criminal. If anyone has been doing any sneaking and betraying, it will be on your side of things."

"My house is clean," Red says sharply. "But yours is not. Find the leak, Harold, and do it fast. When you know who it is, I want to be notified. I have some…pressing questions for whomever it is."

"I don't work for you, Reddington — it's the other way around, in case you'd forgotten."

"I'd have thought you'd want to know," Red answers mildly. "One of your people is dead, another badly injured. Who else are you willing to risk?"

A pause on the other end, then a muffled thump, like a fist hitting a desk.

"Fine," Cooper snaps, his voice angry and tired. "Now, I want to talk to Agent Milhoan."

He's not ready to tell the horrible truth, not until he absolutely has to.

"I'm afraid she's not with me at the moment, Harold," he says smoothly. "Call me when you know something."

He hangs up and stares out the window at the velvet dark of a rural night. And tries to imagine what he can possible say to Dom that will induce the other man to help him.

* * *

She waits impatiently for things to fall quiet, for all the activity to shut down for the night.

Her catheter and IV have been removed, and a brief physical examination performed by an efficient but silent nurse. Someone else brought her dinner, which was heavy on starch and low on protein — in deference to her having not eaten solid food for a while, she supposes.

_If_ she hasn't. She's no longer sure what the truth is.

She takes some time to look through the belongings in the room she occupies. She finds some clothes — nothing that she recognizes in particular, but everything in cuts she prefers, in colours and fabrics that she would choose if she could. Not much else, which unfortunately makes sense whether she's a captive or a catatonic mental patient.

Wait, there's her favourite cardigan, ancient and worn — it was Sam's once, and one of the only things she habitually wears that isn't flame retardant. Navy blue, nubbly, faded, with the hole near the hem. She brings it to her face — it even _feels_ the same, and smells faintly of the detergent she favours; the perfume she occasionally wears.

_How did it get here?_

Photos, a scattered handful. Her college graduation, she and Sam, both grinning like lunatics. Herself as a child, messy haired and laughing, on Christmas morning. These are _hers,_ contain her own memories.

Her mind falters, shivers and doubts.

Another photo of herself and the man called Tom, curled up together on a sofa she doesn't recognize, beaming into the camera joyfully. She touches her own face lightly — it's disconcerting to see yourself in a strange place, so blazingly happy to be with a complete stranger. For just a minute, she wonders what it would be like to be that other Liz, with everything she ever wanted secure in her hands…

She meditates for a while, the familiar processes comforting, the quiet, reflective time uncoiling the stress that has built up in her body. She lets her mind review what she knows so far, but she can't figure out what the game is. How will they get information from her just by pretending she is somebody else? Will they hypnotize her? Or are they just trying to confuse her? Get her talking until she unwittingly gives something away?

She doesn't _know_ anything, and all this thinking, around and around, is getting her nowhere.

She shuffles over to the door, trying to be quiet while her limbs still don't want to hold her weight. Movement continues in the hallway — when she presses up to the window and peers out, she can just see a clock on the wall. It's only nine o'clock, and she sighs.

She works her way back to the bed and digs around in the nightstand. She finds what she's looking for — a watch. It's heavy and old, and it looks…it looks like Sam's, and she freezes with it in her hand for a long moment.

She shakes herself; it could be any watch, it's old but not an antique, not particularly unusual in any way. She slowly sets the alarm for one o'clock, hesitates again, then turns the watch over.

There's the dent in the case, and the mess of scratches — damage from the one time she'd almost vacuumed it up…

It can't be, though, it can't, because Sam's things and hers are all safe with Dembe, with Red by now, not here, waiting for her in some…Russian government facility. _None of these things are real. _She takes a deep breath, then another, recentering herself, shutting down the frantic scrambling of her brain.

She's cold without the flame simmering inside her; she curls tight under the thin institutional blankets and tries to sleep, watch clutched tightly in one hand.

* * *

It's farther outside the small town than he thought it would be, but Dembe finally turns into a gravel drive around midnight.

"It's very late," the other man says, looking at him in the rearview mirror. "Are you sure we shouldn't wait until morning?"

"I can't wait," he answers. "It's been too long already." He's afraid if he stops moving, like a shark he will falter, fail, fall.

He strides to the wooden door, knocks hard. Knocks again. Knocks again and again, until he hears shuffling footsteps and irritable grumbling.

_Somebody better be dying out there…any idea what time it is?_

The _snick_ of locks being undone, then the door opens a crack, the security chain still fastened. A slice of a familiar face, angry and rumpled — before he can say anything, the door slams shut again. A volatile Russian curse, then footsteps walking away.

Before it's entirely too late, he calls out. "It's Elizabeth."

A pause, everything falling silent again, the eerie quiet of the country. The footsteps approach again.

"Elizabeth?"

"Your granddaughter."

The crack in the door appears again, the same piece of a face, this time afraid as well as angry.

"She's…is she…?"

"She's alive," Red hastens to reassure the old man. "For now. She's been taken; Dominic, I need your help."

The door shuts again, more quietly this time. Another long, long minute of silence. Then the rattle of the security chain, and the door swings open again, Dom's back already disappearing inside the house.

He glances at Dembe, who shrugs philosophically. They enter together, and walk down the creaky hallway into the kitchen, where Dom is pulling a bottle out of a cupboard. Vodka, rather than scotch, Red notes, but any port in a storm.

He could certainly use a drink or ten.

They all sit at the round wooden table; Dom pours out three generous shots and slides two over.

"_Zdarovje,"_ Dom says gruffly — the literal bare minimum, but it's something, Red supposes.

He downs the shot in one healthy gulp, relishing the smooth burn in his throat, the warm heat in his stomach. Grateful to feel anything but icy cold and afraid.

"So. My granddaughter is in trouble? After everything? How do you even know?"

This may be harder than he had anticipated. "I've been working with her for a while. After Sam died–"

"_What?_ All your speechifying about cutting ties, making her safe, keeping her hidden. And you…you just show up in her life as if nothing matters?" Dom is furious, his face red with anger, his fists clenched on the table. "You made those choices for her, for all of us. And I let you because I agreed it was the only way to keep her safe. How _dare_ you violate that, just _spit_ in our faces, and then come to me for help?"

Dembe shifts in his chair, but Red shakes his head slightly. It's no more than he deserves, it's true, it's all true. And if Elizabeth dies, he will cheerfully come back here and let this irascible old man put a bullet in his head.

"I thought I could…protect her. I anticipated almost every threat."

"Almost." A disbelieving snort.

"I put trust where I shouldn't have," he admits. "A failing I thought I had conquered long ago. And now, they have her, Dominic. And I _must_ get her back."

"'They' have her? Who is 'they', according to you?"

"It's the FSB; I have confirmation."

Dom rolls his eyes in skepticism. "Look, I–"

"You know they're still trying to replicate Yuri's work, Dom, you _know it._ And they think she's the key."

"What do you want from me?"

Red puts his hands palm-down on the table, breathes in and out carefully. Looks into the other man's eyes and lets everything show. All his desperation, fear, loss, rage.

A silent plea.

"You still have contacts from your KGB days. I can't find anything on where they might be holding her, and I can no longer trust anyone I had in Moscow. Please, Dominic, help me find at least a trace of her."

"So, you broke your word, destroyed our best-laid plans — selfish, just like always, _selfish._ And now, you ask me to rescue you like a child with a broken toy."

The well of bitterness is much deeper than Red had imagined; the injustice done much worse than he'd ever thought. All those years ago, it had seemed simple. It is anything but.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I was wrong. Then, now, maybe both, I don't know. I'm sorry for what I took from you, Dominic.

"But I need your help to get it back. I don't need you to rescue _me,_ Dom, I need you to rescue _her._ Help her, Dom. Masha needs you."

The old man flinches at the sound of the old nickname, his face drawn and tired now. He looks down at his hands, then back at Red.

"For Masha," he says, reluctant and tired. "I'll do what I can. Let me send a couple of messages, then I need some sleep." He hesitates, then sniffs a little. "You look like you could use some sleep yourselves, both of you. You might as well stay here — I've got extra beds."

This is a major concession, and far more than he'd expected.

"Thank you," he says, meaning it. "This is Dembe," he remembers, finally, "my brother."

Dembe smiles in a gleam of white, and Dom snorts again. "You've always been loyal, Red, you've got that going for you, at least. Go on, I know you have spare clothes and whatnot in that fancy car of yours. I'll get the beds made."

He stumps off, grouchy acceptance and stubborn indifference written in his frame. Red and Dembe glance at each other, and walk out again to the car.

Red stands in the drive, looking at the stars; takes long breaths of crisp, cool air. Finally, a step in the right direction.

"I'm coming, sweetheart," he whispers to the night sky. "Hang on, just hang on and wait for me."

* * *

When the alarm goes off, she blinks alert quickly, popping easily out of sleep. She's still not quite steady on her legs, which makes her think that, one way or another, she's been unconscious for some time — probably drugged, and she's glad to be rid of the IV.

At the dresser, she opens the drawer she'd looked through earlier, plucks a bra out and fiddles with it. It takes her a couple of minutes to make a hole in the fabric and wiggle out the two pieces of wire, but she does it eventually. It's thin and a bit flimsy, but she can make it work.

She doubles one piece over, squeezing it tightly together and making a small bend at one end, then makes her shuffling way across the room to the door. She stands, silent and unmoving, for a full minute, watching, listening.

There's nothing, no sounds outside, and she can't see anything through the narrow window. She puts a hand on the lever of the door handle and uses it to support herself as she crouches down.

And it moves easily under her hand, the door opening a crack with a quiet click.

She nearly falls over in her shock — what kind of kidnappers don't lock up their prisoner? Had that last orderly, the one who took her food tray away, simply forgotten to lock it? That seems unlikely, but…what other explanation can there be?

Doubly uneasy now, she slips into the dark corridor, making sure the door shuts behind her and keeping the wires in her hand — she can always jab an eye, if necessary.

She creeps along, keeping close to the wall for support as much as secrecy. There are other doors — not too many, but evenly spaced along both sides of the hallway. Peering carefully into the first one she reaches, she sees it is nearly identical to her own, with a person sleeping peacefully in the bed.

She looks into ten rooms in all, each one an apparent patient room just like hers. The corridor opens into a larger, communal room with a television, comfortable seating, a few small tables with scattered chairs.

The more she sees, the more it seems as if she is exactly where they told her she is — some sort of rehab or medical facility. She hears footsteps, then, and ducks down behind a puffy armchair, folding herself small and holding her breath. A flashlight beam sweeps the room, and the footsteps move past her, then into her own hallway.

A guard, doing security rounds, she thinks, and knows she needs to hurry.

There's only one other way to go — another hallway, shorter this time, with only two doors on each side. These ones have names printed neatly on them — doctors' names. Shaky and uncertain, she finds Dr Wilkes' name and tries the door.

This one _is_ locked, but it's just a flimsy built-in, and she picks it easily enough. She slides inside and shuts the door behind her. It's darker inside the office; the windows — if there are windows — must be covered.

She waits by the door as long as she dares, twitching impatiently, for her eyes to readjust. As soon as she can see well enough, she makes her way to the large desk at the opposite side of the room. There's nothing untoward on its surface, just stacks of files, a notebook, some mail.

The top folder is labelled "Elizabeth Keen".

She grabs it with trembling hands, and flips it open on the desk.

Clipped to the inside is a photo of her, her face still bruised from her encounter with Lorca, then the Stewmaker. The first sheet seems to be an admittance form — a brief physical description, contact details for Thomas Keen, dated only a few days after Lorca grabbed her.

Her condition…_severe catatonic state…completely non-responsive…_ A list of medications that she can't make any sense of; instructions for nutrients and saline to be fed to her via IV.

Her breath is short by the time she finishes just that first page, her eyes blurring, her whole body feeling weak and unsubstantial.

_What's real?_

It…it could all still be fake, it's _obviously_ fake, but…

But, another, more treacherous voice murmured inside her mind, why would anyone go to all this trouble if they could just torture you instead? Why take the time? Why risk being caught and losing it all?

Is there…is there even a remote chance that this is all true? That she is just…crazy? Broken?

She doesn't hear the voices, the running footsteps, the doors opening and closing.

She's still standing at the desk, her eyes blank, her hands frozen on the papers, when the nurse comes into the room. She clucks over Liz, chastising her gently, exclaiming over the chill of her skin as she wraps a firm arm around Liz and guides her back to her room.

She goes as far as to tuck Liz into bed, fetching an extra blanket to throw over her, and patting her leg comfortingly.

"Now, you just try and go right back to sleep, honey. You can talk to the doctor in the morning — he'll help straighten this all out."

She bustles out, shutting the door behind her quietly. Liz turns to curl on her side again, watching the door for danger, for help, for _Red._

The tears come slowly at first, then faster and faster so she has to muffle her sobs in her pillow.

How can she fight when she isn't being attacked?

How can she escape an unlocked cage?

When she does finally drift into an exhausted sleep, she dreams of fire, blazing bright in her hand.

She dreams of a man with stormy eyes, who can wrap her in love without touching her; who stands with her, strong and fast, in dangerous times.

_Red,_ she mumbles, tossing and turning, seeking him even in slumber. _Find me…_


	5. Issue 15: Experimentation, Liz

She wakes up still exhausted, still mired in her dreams; fire and violence and fear. Her room is already bright, and she remembers with distaste the hospital routine of lights on at seven sharp, whether you want them or not. She rolls to lie flat on her back and stares blankly at the ceiling, lost.

It's only a couple of minutes before yet another nurse bustles in, a cheerful smile on her face and a cup in each hand.

"Good morning, Agent Keen," she says sunnily. "It's just _wonderful_ to see you up and alert, honey! How do you feel this morning?"

She certainly doesn't have the strength to argue about her name, not with this cheerful force. She evaluates her body, then shrugs noncommittally. "Tired," she says shortly. "Still weak, and I have a raging headache."

The nurse clucks with motherly concern and puts a cool hand on Liz' forehead; asks Liz to follow her finger; listens briefly to her heart. Apparently satisfied with her findings, she picks her cups up again from the bedside table and hands them over.

One is water, but the other contains three pills, all different.

Liz looks up quickly. "I'm not taking these," she says aggressively. "How am I supposed to know what they are?"

"Now, now, dear — we don't want to cause any trouble, do we? You need your medicine, that's doctor's orders."

Liz shakes her head stubbornly. The nurse sighs and sits on the edge of the bed.

"Look here," she says patiently, indicating each pill as she speaks. "This one's your antidepressant, a common one; this one's a painkiller, it should help with your headache; and this one's an antipsychotic, a low dose."

"You could say anything," Liz points out. "How am I supposed to know what's true?"

"If we wanted to drug or harm you," the nurse says gently, "we could have just left you hooked up to the IV. Why would we even let you wake up?"

Liz hesitates, because this statement is utterly reasonable, isn't it? If only she weren't so tired…

"Don't you want to go home?"

_Home,_ she thinks. _Yes, home._

Not daring to stop and think about it, she swallows all three pills together with one long drink. The nurse fairly beams at her.

"There's a good girl, now — you'll be feeling better in no time. I'll bet you're hungry, too, hmm?"

Is that what the hollow feeling that haunts her is? Liz nods numbly.

"Breakfast will be along in about twenty minutes, then, honey. My name's Sophie — I've got to move along now, but if you need anything, your call button's right there–" she points to the wall beside the bed. "Just give a shout." She pats Liz' leg reassuringly, then bustles off, exuding efficiency and good will.

Liz curls up again, still cold — _why is it so cold here? _— and waits to see what the day will bring.

* * *

Breakfast turns out to be a very institutional sort of thin oatmeal, with weak tea and applesauce. It's horribly unappetizing, but she is, in fact, ravenously hungry — hungry enough that she finishes it all.

She's more stable this morning, her legs more sure underneath her, which is a relief. She ducks into the small bathroom attached to her room and has a hot shower, which feels _marvelous _— and it is both unnerving and comforting to find her own preferred toiletries already there, ready to go.

Refreshed, she dresses in soft things she finds in the dresser — leggings and a worn t-shirt, silky jersey on her skin a pleasing novelty. She pulls Sam's sweater on over the tee — for warmth, for comfort, for the certainty of things she _knows_ are real.

She sits on the bed with the photos she'd found the previous night, staring at them and wondering — could this actually be her life? She's still sitting there an unknown amount of time later when there is a quick rap on her door and Sophie comes back in.

"All right, honey, Dr. Wilkes wants to see you," the nurse says, ushering her up and out the door. "I'll just take you to his office, come along."

The friendly woman leads her briskly down the hall and through the common room. There are people in there now, a few staring blankly at the tv, one sitting at a table putting together a jigsaw puzzle, two playing something incomprehensible with a set of checkers.

She wraps her sweater a little tighter, and tries not to look at anyone; tries to pretend that this intrusive reality doesn't exist.

Sophie leaves her at the doctor's office door with a smile and a comforting pat on the shoulder. Liz reaches inside, one final, desperate time, for heat, a spark — _anything _— and comes up with nothing yet again.

She takes a deep, shaky breath and knocks on the door.

* * *

It feels like hours that she sits in silence, opposite Dr Wilkes on a low, plush couch, waiting as he watches her with a level gaze. In truth, it's probably only a couple of minutes before he decides he must speak first.

"Good morning, Agent Keen," he says, his fingers steepled before his face.

She flinches. "I to– _asked_ you not to call me that," she says.

"I think it's best if we keep reinforcing your identity," he replies, firmly but not unkindly. "Keep you centred and focused on getting well. Now, I heard you had a little…adventure last night."

She shrugs, nothing to say.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

She hesitates, then shakes her head. "No," she says quietly. "You know I didn't."

"Is it possible, Agent Keen, that you didn't find anything because there is nothing to be found?"

"Or because the people you work for are very well organized and well funded," she retorts stubbornly.

He sighs lightly, then smiles at her.

"I must admire your tenacity, Elizabeth," he answers, dropping the formality abruptly. "Very well, then — can you show me your 'abilities' today?"

She reaches again, although she knows there will be no answer, flexing her fingers anxiously.

There is nothing inside her but emptiness.

"No," she says flatly. "I can't. It's…there's something wrong with me."

"Or, everything is absolutely normal," he suggests mildly. "And you are simply recovering from a breakdown."

"I–" She wants to protest again, to rail at this smooth-faced man and demand her freedom. But she is tired and confused, and reality is starting to take a new shape.

And _normal_ has a seductive allure that is increasingly difficult to resist.

"I don't know," she admits, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, hard.

"When your father died, you felt helpless," he says. "His death was a surprise."

The sudden shift in topic startles her into an honest reaction.

"He was sick," she says, the pain of it still sharp inside her. "Sick for ages and he didn't tell me. He kept everything from me, and then there was no time." She clamps down fiercely on the tears that want to fall.

"And it wasn't long after that when…" He pauses, checking his notes. "When Hector Lorca escaped from jail and attacked you."

"He blames me," she says. "For going to jail. He said I ruined his life, that I took everything, and he…"

"He would pay you back in kind. Do you think you gave yourself this power, this _pyrokenesis_ to feel stronger? To be more in control of your fate?"

"My father is still dead," she points out. "Lorca still attacked me — and worse."

"Ah yes," Dr. Wilkes says, leaning forward with interest. "When you slipped into your catatonic state, and the delusion really took hold. What happened then?"

So, unable to see the harm in it, she tells him about the Stewmaker and his cabin of horrors in the woods; relives the pain and fear, the horrible guilt.

"You killed your attacker?" the doctor says. "You see, your mind gives you back your strength, enables you to triumph where you had not, could not in reality."

She shakes her head mutely, hating that what he's saying makes a certain terrible sense.

"What about this man — Reddington? Tell me about him."

She does, eagerly, describing him in a torrent of words, rebuilding him, making him nearly real enough to touch.

"I see," Dr. Wilkes says thoughtfully, when she explains how Red's influence can calm things, can quiet her anger and more harmful emotions. "To replace your father and the family you long for, a stand in for your partner in real life, your mind creates this figure. A match for your mysterious power, a mentor and companion; someone to love, yes?"

She flushes and looks away. "He's not…I mean…we're friends as well as partners, but I…"

The doctor smiles gently. "Don't worry," he says kindly. "Everything we talk about here is completely confidential. Why don't we try a little relaxation exercise, make it a little easier for you to share?"

"All right,' she says, thinking that she could use a break, to digest all this — and she's still so tired. She yawns.

Dr. Wilkes starts talking in a low monotone, describing a sunset over the ocean. She lets her eyes close, her guard dangerously down, and focuses on breathing, long and deep. The drone of the doctor's voice is soothing; she soon loses track of what he's saying and just lets the quiet sound ease her tangled nerves.

After talking about him, describing him in intricate detail, Red is waiting there at the front of her mind, and she lets herself slip away, seeking him.

Watching her carefully as he speaks, the doctor lets his voice trail off, then waits for several minutes, going over the notes he'd made. When one of her hands slips off the sofa to dangle, loose and limp, and her breathing doesn't change, he smiles a new, sharper smile. Satisfied that the sedative she'd been given that morning has finally taken effect, he stands and walks to the door, poking his head out to call down the hall.

"Sophie, be a dear and have Luther bring Dr Orchard in, will you?"

* * *

It takes surprisingly little time to get set up, to get the drugs Dr Orchard requests flowing through the girl's system — and her body responds almost immediately. She begins to twist anxiously on the low sofa, whimpering as her sedated doze begins to lighten.

"It's all right, Elizabeth," Dr Orchard says calmly, holding the other woman's wrist, tracking her pulse carefully. "There's nothing to be afraid of. Can you hear me?"

"Yes," Liz answers. Her eyes remain closed, but they move rapidly under the lids.

"I want you to relax, Elizabeth — let every muscle go, one at a time. That's it, as if you're floating. As you float, all of the tension leaves your body. Tension floats too, but it floats away from you. Now, I want you to breathe in…" Liz takes a deep breath obediently. "And out…" Liz exhales, and her body goes the rest of the way limp.

"Good," Dr Orchard says approvingly, trying her best to ignore the men in the room with her, one threatening and one fascinated. "That's good, Elizabeth. All of your tension is floating away; you can't feel it anymore. All you can feel is yourself, just you, the image getting clearer and clearer. Focus on that image of yourself.

"Only it's not you today, it's you twenty-six years ago. You can picture her, that little girl you once were. Can you see her, Elizabeth?"

"Yes," Liz says, her tone curious. "She's so…small." As if she can't quite integrate the little girl in her mind with her current self.

"Good," the doctor says again. "That's good, Elizabeth. Do you remember the fire, when you were that little girl?"

Liz frowns. "I remember, but I don't like to."

"I want you to take me there, Elizabeth. Take us to that night. Can you do that?"

"I'll try…" It's just a whimper.

"That's good, you're very brave. Picture the house in your mind, the place you stayed with your mother. Now, I'm going to ask that little girl to open her eyes. Are you ready?"

Liz nods slowly, her own eyes remaining firmly shut.

"Three…two…one. What do you see?"

"A lady," Liz says slowly, her voice higher, lighter. "I know her, it's…it's Mama, she's hiding me away…"

"What's she saying?"

"She says, 'Stay here, Masha. No matter what happens, you must stay here and not come out until I come and get you.' She shuts the door, but I don't like it. I'm afraid of the dark." This last comes confidingly, a shy secret.

"Do you stay hidden, then?"

"I'm scared. Mama's scared, too, she's yelling at someone — Papa's here!"

"What do you see? Can you open the door?"

"I can see through the slats," she says. "Mama and Papa are fighting. 'Where is she?' Papa hits Mama and now she's crying. 'She's not going with you!' I don't like this," she says, start to toss restlessly again, tears and sweat mingling on her face. "I don't want to be here anymore."

Dr Orchard looks up questioningly, but Dr Wilkes shakes his head. "Keep going," he says. "She's not told us anything yet. Call her Mariya — that was her name as a child."

Dr Orchard frowns, but turns obediently back to her patient. "It's okay, Mariya," she says, taking Liz' hand. "I know you're scared, but everything is okay. Nothing can hurt you there."

Liz just whimpers, shaking her head.

"I promise you're safe, Mariya. We're just watching — like a show. What's happening now? Tell me."

"They're shouting."

"What are they saying?"

"Papa is very angry. 'Did you really think I'd let you take her? All my work, my _years_ of research?' Mama slaps him! 'You don't even care about your own daughter!' No, no, don't!" Her voice is a shrill scream, a child's fear.

Dr Orchard looks at the beeping monitor, her face creased in concern. "Don't do what? What's happening, Mariya?"

"They're fighting," she wails. "Hitting and kicking. You're not supposed to hit! Papa's too strong and Mama falls down. Oh no, _oh no!"_

She screams in absolute terror, and the monitor goes berserk.

Dr Orchard turns back to Dr Wilkes. "We're done," she says flatly. "Her blood pressure is through the roof — she's in v-tach. She needs lidocaine."

"We've still got nothing," Dr Wilkes starts.

"You won't find what you're looking for if she's dead," Dr Orchard snaps.

Wilkes frowns, then capitulates. "Fine," he says, irritated. "Enough — for today. You'll work with her again tomorrow. But wait–" He grabs Dr Orchard's wrist as she reaches for a prepared injector. "Bring her out slowly, and leave her just under, like she was when we started. I don't want her remembering any part of this."

"I don't know if that's possible," Dr Orchard protests.

"_Make _it possible," Dr Wilkes says coolly. "Or your son will suffer the consequences."

* * *

"…was an unpublished author, you say?"

Dr. Wilkes' now-familiar voice hums across her consciousness, startling her alert. She feels extremely odd — exhausted, achy down to her bones, and for some reason, weepy and tragic. Strangely adrift, as if she is no longer rooted in the present, as if time is no longer linear. _What have they been talking about?_ She can't quite remember.

"I'm sorry?" she says hesitantly, becoming aware that the doctor is waiting for her to say something.

"You were telling me about leaving your apartment to stay with your…partner, this Reddington person."

"Oh," she replies, a little taken aback. _Had they been?_ "Yes, I stayed with him. At Frederick Hemstead's house in Brewer's Hill, paper in piles everywhere and pot after pot of the most horrific moonshine…"

She trails off, remembering the conversations they'd had there, remembering that first impulsive kiss…

She shakes it off and offers a faint smile. "At least, that's what I remember."

"You truly have an incredible mind, Agent Keen," Dr. Wilkes says, rapidly making notes. _Frederick Hemstead; Brewer's Hill — Baltimore?_ "The depth and detail of your delusion…it's no wonder you feel so strongly about it."

She wishes he'd stop calling her life a delusion. Is everything she remembers just a wildly bizarre fever dream? The doctor looks up from his notepad and then jolts in surprise.

"Goodness, we've been at this for almost two hours, you must be completely worn out. Why don't you go back to your room and relax for a bit? We can talk more tomorrow."

She's so tired she can't actually believe it's been _only_ two hours, even though it feels like less, so she nods.

"I feel like we may have made a little progress," Dr. Wilkes says. "How do you feel, Agent Keen?"

She hesitates, then shrugs, not knowing. "Maybe you're right," she says, her head pounding painfully with confusion. "I don't know what's real anymore."

"That's progress in and of itself," he answers, with his gentle smile. "And we both know _this_ is real, at least."

She returns his smile, a little weakly. She's cold again, despite her sweater, and she stands up, eager to move and ease the ache in her limbs.

"Can you find your way on your own?"

"Of course," she says, a bit insulted. "It's not complicated. Do you trust me alone, then?"

Dr. Wilkes looks at her intently. "You aren't a prisoner here, Agent Keen, you're a patient."

She nods, reluctant, but beginning to accept it as the truth. She walks away, out and down the hall, mind in turmoil, fighting against itself. Either way, there's no winning this particular battle.

* * *

When she opens the door to her room, the man called Tom is there, leaping up from the chair by her bed to greet her. She realizes that she has been expecting to see him, waiting for him to appear. He's smiling with blazing happiness as he strides over to her and catches her hands in his.

"Liz, you look so much better!" he exclaims, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek. "How do you feel?"

She smiles back — it's difficult not to — and lets him tug her into the room to sit beside him on the bed.

"Still tired," she says. "And sore. My head aches."

He strokes her cheek with the back of his hand. "I expect it will take some time for your body to get used to being active again," he says. "I'm sorry you're so uncomfortable, though. Do you want an aspirin or something? I can call the nurse."

"It's okay," she answers, appreciating his concern. "They gave me something this morning — I don't want to take any more pills."

"Up to you," he says. "But if it gets worse, it's silly to suffer if you don't have to."

She looks at him, all rumpled and scruffy with clear blue eyes full of worry, and wonders again — _is this her real life?_

"Are we really married?" she blurts out, awkward and much louder than she intended.

"We are," he says, his voice low and quiet in contrast. He picks up her hand and kisses it. "Since you finished school."

She's staring at their hands, completely unused to these intimacies — shouldn't they feel familiar? Shouldn't _he?_

"I'm sorry," he stammers, awkward now too. "I know you don't think…I mean…" He shrugs and smiles again, but it lacks the joy it had before. "I just love you so much, Liz, and I've been so worried."

He startles then, as if something has just occurred to him, and stands up to fish around in his pocket.

"Here," he says, pleased, and holds out a set of rings. "They took them off you when they put the IV in — I've been keeping them safe for you."

He picks up her hand again, and slides them onto her finger. She looks at them, mind empty of all thought now. The diamond is modest, but clear and bright; the gold mellow and warm, the edges just beginning to round with wear. They fit perfectly, as if they belong on her hand, and she suddenly wants to cry without really understanding why.

"I…should you be at work?" she asks, desperate for something neutral to say.

"I took a leave," he answers. "The school found a term substitute. I had to be here, Liz."

"You're a teacher?" It seems to fit him, somehow.

He pushes his glasses up on his nose and grins. "Grade four," he confirms. "It's fantastic, all that curiosity and creativity. They're a riot."

"You like kids," she says, finding his enthusiasm rather sweet. "I do, too."

"I know. It's…it's why we decided you'd put off Quantico, for a while. We…we were…we wanted to start a family."

Her heart thumps agonizingly in her chest, her mind zeroing in like a laser on the thought, so precious, so dear — and one she'd never dared to even think, so terribly out of her reach that she couldn't bear it.

A baby.

She looks at Tom, beseeching, her breath short.

"You wanted to adopt," he continues. "After growing up with Sam like you did — we agreed we wanted to offer a home to someone that needed it. Then we met Jeni, pregnant and alone, and…it was all so perfect. Sam was over the moon, before…well. Do you…remember the ultrasound?"

She shakes her head mutely, afraid to open her mouth lest the animal wail of pain inside her escape into the air. Tom is pulling his wallet from his back pocket, flipping through the contents to pull out a small slip of paper, worn with handling.

He gazes at it lovingly for a moment, then passes it to Liz. "That's her," he says wistfully. "Our baby girl."

She holds the image delicately, just letting it rest on her palm. She touches the blurry shape lightly with one finger.

A baby.

_Her baby._

With a crack she can almost hear as well as feel, her mind snaps clean and clear as her heart floods with emotion, turbulent and unchecked. Tears come unbidden, a rush of longing and fear and hope, and she starts to sob, curling into Tom's waiting arms. He rubs her back soothingly, murmuring soft words of love and understanding.

She can't see him look over her head to see Dr. Wilkes standing in the doorway; can't see him wink, with a glint in his eye and a smile turned sly and sinister.

All she can see is a beautiful life waiting, with everything she ever wanted, like a dream just waiting to be believed.


	6. Issue 16: Experimentation, Red

Red cannot sleep — but lying down, forcing himself to be still, allows him some ease. Rather than causing his spirit to fail, as he feared, rest enables him to collect himself, to recenter his fractured mind. More than ever before, he needs to be sharp, to cut through the lies and deception that surround him and find the truth.

He stares at the ceiling, looking inward fiercely. They _will_ find a contact, a leak, some way into the FSB. They _will_ listen, spy, torture — whatever is necessary to find Elizabeth in whatever hole they have buried her in.

He _will_ make her safe again if it is the last thing he does.

He reaches out again with his power, searching futilely for the glowing spark that is _her,_ though he knows she is surely too far to find this way. He cannot help himself; cannot resist the urge to reach for her. He remembers how it felt to waken with her curled against him, warm and safe and happy.

It's a good goal — to hold her again, loved, whole.

He _will_ do worse than burn the world down, for the people he loves.

He rises when he hears movement in the house, shrugging quickly back into his trousers and shirt. He makes his way to the kitchen to find Dom measuring out coffee in a worn plaid bathrobe.

"Morning," the older man grunts, without turning around.

"Any word?" he says, impatient after waiting all night, anxious now to be moving once again.

"Yes, I slept fine, thank you," Dom grumbles back. "And you're welcome for the hospitality."

"Oh, I do apologize if I've offended you," he snaps, beyond irritated, at the end of his patience. "I know quite well that you have little use for common pleasantries. I imagined you'd have at least some small concern for your missing granddaughter."

Dom slams the coffee pot into place and spins on his heels to face Red, face contorted with anger. "Don't you _dare_ question my commitment to her," he seethes, voice low and deadly. "_You_ are the one that has brought us to this pass. Masha is…" His voice cracks slightly. "She is all I have left in the world, and I don't even know what she looks like."

Red can feel Dom's anger and misery, battering him like ocean waves. He sits down heavily at the kitchen table and fishes his phone out of his pocket. He opens his photos and flicks through to find her pretty, smiling face, caught on a sunny afternoon in Grimmentz. He offers the phone wordlessly and it is snatched from his hand, Dom devouring the image greedily.

"Ah, just look how beautiful," he says with a sigh. "She looks just like her grandmother — Yuri's mother. Is there anything of Katya in her?"

The wistfulness in this question surprises Red, though it probably shouldn't have. "She holds herself like Katarina did," he says quietly, watching Liz again in his mind. "She moves in the same way, graceful and sleek, like a panther. And her eyes, her eyes are Kat's, they draw you in, as if she could weigh and measure your soul with a glance."

Dom snorts in derision — "You always did love to pontificate, instead of just _saying_ something." — but his face is soft and loving in remembrance.

"You can be very proud," Red says. "She is…extraordinary. Smart, sharp, and strong, empathetic and kind, with a determined spirit and willpower like a force of nature."

"Sounds like your friend did an all right job raising her," Dom says gruffly, handing back the phone.

"Sam was a wonderful father," Red replies firmly. "But Elizabeth has plenty of love to go around."

Dom looks at him then, eyes fierce. "You'll bring her here," he says, a clear demand, "when this is finished."

He nods, a bargain made. "You both deserve the chance," he agrees, "to know one another."

Dom hands him a mug of coffee. "I'll check the computer again," he says. "I think I hear your man up and about."

And he's right, Dembe entering the kitchen moments after Dom leaves it. He refuses coffee, his jacket already on.

"I thought I'd go straight to the apartment," he says. "Get that out of the way as soon as possible. Will you come with me?"

Red shakes his head. "I'll stay here," he answers. "Better to keep well out of sight, for now."

Dembe accepts this without protest, although they both know it is a weak excuse. They both know that facing her home, her things, her _scent_ — it might break him, when he most needs to be strong.

* * *

When he can no longer stand to be alone with his thoughts, he goes in search of his reluctant host. He finds Dom in the front room of the house, a comfortable space with a slouchy sofa, a piano, a desk. Dom sits behind it, dressed now and examining the screen of a laptop intently, customary scowl firmly in place. He looks up when he hears Red in the doorway, and gestures impatiently for him to enter the room.

"See here," he says as Red approaches, pointing at the screen. "I've heard back from an old friend — Dimitri works in counter-intelligence, which isn't the best place to know anything that would help us. As you might expect, even within the FSB itself, the paranormal research division is a closely guarded secret."

Red may suffocate in his frustration. "What does that mean?" he asks, striving to keep his tone even. "Do I need to look elsewhere?"

"Keep your shirt on," Dom snaps. "Dimitri has no knowledge of a paranormal division, _but_ he trusts me. He's agreed to try and find out what he can."

"If this Dimitri gives something away," Red starts.

Dom gives an irritated grunt. "Dimitri has worked in counter-intelligence since the Cold War. He knows what he's doing."

"So…we just have to wait."

"I'm afraid so. Not your strong point, is it?"

Red shrugs. "Sometimes it is," he says. "But not this time." He thinks he may go mad if he's forced to sit and wait, doing nothing at all.

Dom rolls his eyes in some disgust. "You should have gone with your man, then," he observes. "There's nothing to do here _but_ wait."

Red huffs out a breath and walks over to the wide bay window and looks out, unseeing, losing himself in memory.

Memories of Katarina and Mariya when he'd first known them. Katarina had been worn bone-thin, her face so pale it was nearly blue; eyes constantly darting about, searching for danger, her expression haunted. Mariya, on the other hand, had been silent and still, unnaturally so for a child so young. She had a weary, resigned look in her eyes that bespoke one too many hardships in her short life; she waited patiently for the next betrayal.

The child had barely spoken to him during that time, her fear a silencing shield around her that was nearly impossible to penetrate. But she had gradually grown to trust him, at least enough to accept food from him, or listen to a story. He thinks now that that animal wariness has never really left her; she merely honed it over the years to wield with purpose, to protect herself.

He remembers that although Katarina had always called him Raymond, dignified and distant, Mariya had called him _Krasnyj,_ in her solemn way, after he told her his nickname.

He wonders what horrors she is experiencing now; wonders, shaking, if she even lives. But surely he would know if she were dead; surely the exit of her soul from this world would have resonated in his own with a shriek of utter desolation. He pictures her face, the marks of their encounter with Nikolai Volkov stark against her creamy skin, and longs to put a fist through the window.

He yearns for action, for something physical to do, a dragon to slay, instead of wallowing in this inertia that threatens to drown him. Even Dom's quiet breathing behind him is too much to bear. He wheels around again, only to be met by the other man's sardonically amused gaze.

"You'd make a terrible spy," Dom says. "How you ever worked in intelligence at all, I can't imagine."

"It's Elizabeth." All he can offer in his own defense.

He drops into the sofa with a weary sigh. Dom is silent in response, a signal that he has at least a modicum of sympathy. Red focuses on breathing, trying to find the cool detachment that is his own shield, that he depends on — and fails miserably.

When his phone goes off, what feels like eons later, it's like the answer to a prayer. Even better, it's Dembe.

"Dembe," he says, hoping.

"I'm sorry, Raymond," comes the somber reply. "There's absolutely nothing to find here."

Red's desire to punch something increases exponentially.

"That in itself could tell us something, though," Dembe offers thoughtfully. "I can see why they'd want computers, papers, files — but why take clothes? Toiletries? Even books and photo albums; _everything_ is gone. It doesn't make sense."

"It may at least indicate they intend to keep her alive," he says, his tension easing a fraction.

"That's right," Dembe agrees. "And perhaps they want her to be comfortable."

Red fervently hopes this to be true, although he cannot fathom any reasoning for it. "She'll never turn," he says thoughtfully.

"No," Dembe says. "But there are many ways to manipulate with kindness."

This is undeniably true — he's done it himself, time and again — and now he has a fresh set of dark imaginings to haunt him.

"Come back," he says, wanting the other man's solid, reassuring presence beside him again.

"I'm already on my way," Dembe says and clicks off.

Red isn't sure if he feels better or worse. Then, there's a grunt from the other side of the room, and he moves to Dom's side with alacrity.

"What?" It's all he can manage at this point.

"Dimitri will help us."

"Wonderful," Red says, a tinge of impatience. "What does that mean?"

"He has spoken to his friend, and the conversation they had led Dimitri to believe we are telling the truth. Dimitri doesn't approve of experimentation on humans."

"Who does?" Red says acerbically. "What's the next move, then?"

"There isn't much he can do without causing…unwanted attention to fall on him. You need to go to Moscow."

"_I_ certainly can't infiltrate the FSB."

Dom sighs, aggravated. "Dimitri will plant a bug in the office of Viktor Pronichev, chief of Science and Engineering Services. You'll have to be reasonably close to monitor it, and hope you get something useful.

This is so close to viable that he feels almost light-headed with the relief of it. "Okay," he says. "All right." He looks thoughtfully at the other man. "Come with us," he says impulsively. "Translate for us. Help us to find her."

Dom scoffs. "I'm too old for this kind of nonsense."

"We really could use your help," Red says quietly.

"Well," Dom says hesitantly, "I suppose someone should make sure that you don't screw it all up."

Red smiles. "That's right. Come to Moscow, and keep us in line."

* * *

As it turns out, sitting around listening to bureaucratic squabbles in Russian suits him even less than sitting aimless in Dom's living room. They've at least found a fairly modernized apartment, quite close to Lubyanka Square, to sit in. The other two men listen with apparently endless patience, Dom translating for Dembe while Dembe makes notes on anything potentially important.

Fed up with Red's pacing after only a day, Dembe puts him in charge of food. This shows typical insight — puttering in the kitchen has always relaxed him; it gives him something to keep his hands and mind busy, and helps him feel at least a little bit productive.

He has to work, too, at keeping his tension, frustration, and ever-present fear under his control and out of the atmosphere — it would be all too easy for the tenuous accord they have to blow up in his face. The consistent focus, with no real outlet, makes him even edgier — he starts taking walks, just up and down the street, to maintain some measure of equilibrium.

Coming back late in the afternoon on the third day, he finds his partners in lively discussion.

"What is it?" he breaks in eagerly. "News? A lead?"

"Maybe," Dom grunts. "Pronichev had a meeting with one of his heads — getting what sounded like a progress report. This man, Bragin, he runs a project called _Dukh._ I think this may be the right one."

"Why this one?" Red asks. "What did they say?"

"Not much," Dembe says quietly. "Just that things are progressing well and that Bragin anticipates positive results soon. Pronichev asked if they needed more resources, but Bragin said not yet."

"That could be anything," Red says doubtfully.

"One point in our favour," Dembe says. "They very carefully avoided any mention of the nature or content of this project — it's unusual, based on everything else we've heard."

"The name," Dom says. "It's the name — _Dukh._ It means…something like spirit, or powers of the mind. Similar to the _essence_ of something."

"Hmm," Red says, thinking that over.

"I'm sure — it's the only thing we've heard so far that's even remotely likely."

Hope, when it comes, is a nebulous and delicate thing. "Okay," Red says. "Good. I believe I should have a little…chat with this Bargin."

"Raymond, no," Dembe says.

"Don't be stupid," Dom snaps simultaneously.

He feels dangerously on edge as he stares at them both, but Dembe is too used to him to be bothered, and Dom just doesn't care.

"You think _you're_ cautious? Paranoid?" Dom asks, his voice hard and brittle. "You're a kitten compared to these people. One tiny hint, the slightest occurence out of the ordinary, and they'll collapse everything. Masha will end up even further out of reach — or dead."

Red chews on his lip, digesting this. He knows it to be true enough, but all his sly cleverness, his aptitude for navigating this very world, is dissolving, gossamer-like, lost.

"Have a drink," Dom suggests. "And start thinking smarter. Don't you do this for a living?"

Dangerous is rapidly becoming murderous, but Dembe holds up a hand.

"You hide people, Raymond," he says calmly. "Find safe places for all manner of people, even objects. Someone else is hiding Elizabeth. Surely we know _someone_ who knows something — even the smallest thing."

Red nods, furious at his own blindness, at the recent betrayal that has left him mistrustful and rootless. "I'll have to tread very lightly," he says, his mind already racing.

"You know how the game is played. Time to get back into it."

* * *

And so they divide, hopefully to conquer. Dom and Dembe steadfastly listening, decoding, waiting. Red talking, sending messages, flying around Europe for face-to-face meetings. Making up all manner of ridiculous stories to explain his questions. Struggling to maintain the mask that had once been as close to him as a second skin.

His emotions are too close to the surface, these days.

He works hard to keep it from affecting his search, conducting meeting after meeting with something resembling his usual bonhomie, but guarding his words. He is sharing a fine cigar and a finer cocktail at Bar Mutis with Escarrer when Dembe calls.

"Just one moment," he says, heart pounding. "My heartfelt apologies, but — you know business."

Escarrer grins and winks, turning his chair politely to survey the crowd and offer Red at least the appearance of privacy.

"Dembe," he says, fighting back eagerness.

"No," Dembe replies immediately, a kindness. "Nothing yet, I'm sorry, Raymond."

His hand goes to his head, a rough scrub of frustration. "What is it, then?"

"I just heard from Baz," Dembe says. "The Hemstead house — it's been broken into, searched. Baz says…it's a complete shambles."

_Oh god, oh no._

"They've broken her," he replies numbly. "They're looking for me, now."

"Or they think the Fulcrum is in your possession," Dembe points out. "And they're hoping to find it without having to involve you at all."

"_Cowards,"_ he spits. "We must find them, Dembe, _now."_

"I know, Raymond." Dembe sounds as grim as he does. "Have you had any luck?"

"Nothing," he answers, frustration and anger a dead weight in his belly.

He shuts off the phone and re-engages with Escarrer, the other man's thriving hotel business one he has often taken advantage of when erasing identities. Escarrer moves properties like he's playing Monopoly, but he doesn't have what Red wants.

There's nothing he can do but keep looking; no more they can do than what they're already doing. Over the next few days, word comes of two more safe houses broken into and ransacked. He burns at the thought of what could be happening to her as he swans around Europe.

On the day Dembe notifies him about the third break in, he shares a meal with Grant Stephens, a dealer in land and office space in the US who just happened to be in Belgium on business. He tells Red of a conversation he had some months ago with a man looking for something suitable for a multi-person residence. He hadn't done business with the man — Stephens has heard some unsavoury things about Luther Braxton.

Red returns to Moscow — he can look into what Luther's been up to from there as well as anywhere. And he has become determined to find something more they can do. Perhaps Dom's friend can lift a cell phone they can clone; bug the rest of the offices. _Something._

But just as he walks in the apartment door, his cell starts buzzing, and as he enters the main room, he sees Dembe turn to face him with his own phone in his hand.

"They had another meeting," Dembe says, without preamble. "A real one this time. They spoke a great deal about the _Dukh_ project and its subject." He winces over the word, but it's the one they used. "Bargin was pleased to report that she is becoming quite…malleable."

"_Lizzie,"_ Red says on a breath. His rage explodes outward at last, lowering the temperature in the room several degrees with its icy power, and making the other two men physically recoil with the force of it.

Dom scowls at him. "Stop it," he commands roughly, his words visible puffs of air. "Control yourself — you're not a child. You'll be needing your wits about you."

Red nods tersely, coiling it back as best he can.

"Bargin needed approval for a shipment," Dembe continues. "A drug. Neither of us recognized the name, but he said something about suppression."

Understanding sweeps over Red with cold certainty. "They need to eliminate the threat of her power," he says. "So they can deal with her safely."

Dembe nods. "That's what we think. It's the perfect break, Raymond — all we need to do is track the shipment, and we'll have them."

The relief almost drops him where he stands. "Yes," he says, nearly giddy now. "How ridiculously simple." This sort of thing is his bread-and-butter, after all.

And it _is_ simple — almost infuriatingly so. A mid-size package is collected the next day, bound for northern DC, of all places. The Hoytzmann Mental Health Centre.

This raises an enormous number of extremely unpleasant possibilities that he can't afford to dwell on.

In the air as soon as possible, Dembe is on the phone with Baz, making arrangements. Red has a much more unpleasant call to make, but there's no point in putting it off.

"Reddington." Harold Cooper's voice seethes with a fury that nearly matches his own.

"Harold, I understand you're angry with me, but it's going to have to wait."

"I'm done waiting on you, you–"

"Please," Red breaks in quietly. "It's Elizabeth."

"What happened?" Cooper's tone is immediately concerned, rather than angry.

Red tells him, as succinctly as possible, and in the heavy pause that follows, braces himself for the surely impending attack.

"Why didn't you tell me when it happened?" Surprisingly, Cooper sounds resigned, maybe disappointed, but not angry.

Too worried, too eager to get things moving to dissemble, Red tells the truth. "I didn't want to admit I'd lost her," he says. "It was already too real."

"For Christ's sake, Red," Cooper says tiredly.

"You couldn't have done anything," Red points out. "You can't act against the FSB, and we both know it. _However,_ a suspect medical building on US soil…"

"Give me the address," Cooper replies. "I'll get Aram to look into it, and get what he can on this Braxton character. When will you get here?"

"Mid-day tomorrow," Red says. "And Harold — I thank you for your help. But I'll be going after her on my own."

"Reddington, you don't call the shots here," Cooper started.

"I have a solid team," Red says coolly. "You don't want to be involved."

"Reddington," Cooper tries again, his voice clear and sharp.

"I'm getting her back, Harold," Red says with deadly calm. "No matter what I have to do."


	7. Issue 17: Analysis

**A/N:** Liz and Red's timelines are not running concurrently in this chapter — with Liz, we're still seeing the sort of things that have been happening while Red is searching; with Red, it's direct continuation from the last chapter. I only just realized that might be confusing to anyone who wasn't writing it😂 Thanks for hanging in there!

* * *

The days blur and blend together in a way that bothers her, but she supposes is typical of hospital stays. She wishes she had more energy, feels sure that it would bring more clarity to the time that passes, but she can't seem to find it.

The food here isn't that bad, considering, but it is bland and institutional, and somehow lacks substance. She'd kill for a steak, and thinks they should be giving her more protein if she is ever going to regain any real strength.

Although she gets plenty of sleep, at least some of it from sheer boredom, she is constantly exhausted, as if she is somehow experiencing a great deal of life that never actually occurs. It's an extremely strange feeling, and it makes her edgy and nervous; she spends most of her free time alone in her room. For no reason she can pin down, she is reluctant to talk to any of the other patients — or anyone at all, really.

Except Tom.

Tom is there every day, showing up after her morning therapy, sometimes while she's picking at her dull lunch, and staying as long as he's allowed. He talks endlessly of their relationship — their past, their present; their home, their plans for the future. He paints beautiful pictures of the life they have together and the love they share.

She wishes she could remember it for herself.

Dr Wilkes assures her that everything will come with time, that often just one simple thing — an object, a sound, even a smell — will trigger the mind, and her memories will come flooding back. To this end, her small room becomes filled with her things, both in hope and in comfort.

Tom brings her books — all her favourites, with the cracked spines and dog-eared pages, and the small pencil marks she makes under words and phrases that she wants to remember. Her old iPod, filled with the music she loves, and the playlist Sam had snuck onto it to "broaden her horizons" and she kept out of love. More pictures, a few of her childhood which she recognizes, more of her with Tom which she doesn't.

They walk together out in the small grounds of the Centre, and the fresh air helps a little, helps her feel just a bit more herself. Tom holds her hand, and it's quite nice really, if still unfamiliar. It's there, one day, on a small bench under a drooping willow, that he kisses her.

They've been sitting in companionable silence for a few minutes, hands laced together, when a small bright yellow bird — a finch, maybe? — lands on the grass in front of them, so close that she can see its fluffy feathers ruffle in the breeze. She turns her head to whisper to Tom, to ask if he sees it, too, but he is already shockingly close. He smiles at her when she jumps a little, and squeezes her hand.

"I've missed you," he says, and his tone is different than it usually is, with a note in it she is unsure of. His eyes are dark behind his glasses, and he slips his free hand around the nape of her neck as he presses his lips to hers.

It's not the first time he's kissed her since she's been awake, but it's the first time that he clearly means it to be _more._ More than a gesture, more than casual affection. He lets her hand go so that he can wrap his arm around her back and pull her close, his tongue probing at her lower lip. And although his lips are cool, the skin rough against hers in a way that seems…not quite right, he _is_ her husband.

She deepens the kiss in response almost instinctively, knowing what comes next in a reassuring way. She slides her hands up his back under his jacket, finding confidence in the closeness. She waits for a sense of _rightness,_ of recognition, or even just the physical reaction, the inner curl of heat that signals need.

But there is nothing.

The embrace seems somehow…impersonal; it's calculated rather than honest. She feels guilty as soon as she thinks it, but once the thought is there, she cannot shake it. Oh, his mouth moves against hers appealingly enough, his advances gentle and skilled — there's nothing clumsy about Tom.

But.

Discomfited by her thoughts, by the tiny voice somewhere inside that insists this is _all wrong,_ she disengages as soon as seems reasonable, flustered and confused. He seems to take her flush for enthusiasm, which is just as well. She can't possibly explain to Tom what she doesn't understand herself.

"It will be _so_ good to have you home again," he says, then winks at her, a little mischievously.

She is able to laugh, then, and stand up to lead him back inside. Perhaps he is right, and it's only this situation that makes everything seem so odd. She has a life waiting for her, after all — a cozy home and a satisfying job; a handsome, charming, attentive husband; and even, maybe, one day, a child…

It's all ridiculously idyllic, and she wants it back. She starts pressing harder to be released the next morning, pleading her case with Dr Wilkes with all the sincerity she can muster.

And tries her best to forget the dreams she still has every night. Dreams of fire and blood; dreams full of a different man. A man with stormy grey eyes and clever hands, a man who pushes and prods and makes her a better person. A man who reaches for her, every night, and begs her to wait for him.

Once she's back in the real world, she tells herself, she'll be able to banish that man for good.

* * *

Red chafes at the unnecessary delay, particularly since stopping in the city will delay them another day. But Cooper has refused to give the intel Aram has gathered unless it's in person, insisting that the task force be included in planning the rescue operation.

He strides into the Post Office mid-afternoon, seething with impatience, Dembe's quiet presence at his shoulder all that holds him in place. He is met by an irascible Ressler, still leaning heavily on a cane.

"So," Ressler says, his voice heavy with anger, "shoe's on the other foot now, isn't it? This time, _you've_ lost her — and because you were too arrogant to ask for help earlier, we might not get her back."

Already on edge, this antagonism (and the modicum of truth it carries) snaps his control like a dry twig. His rage sweeps out of him to fill the room with its icy sourness, lowering the ambient temperature a few degrees. His face settles into one of its most dangerous expressions.

"Tread very carefully, Agent Ressler," he says, and the cold hatred in his tone causes the other man to step back. "I have a great deal to do and very little time in which to do it. Certainly none at all to deal with your petulance. If you can help, by all means, do so. If not, get out of my way, or you'll wish that bullet in the leg had killed you."

Visibly paler, Ressler nonetheless appears to be attempting some kind of rejoinder when Cooper's booming voice interrupts the scene.

"Control yourselves, both of you," he shouts, clanging down the metal stairs from his office. "This is _clearly_ neither the time nor the place. Reddington," he continues, pointedly, "pull it back. _Now."_

Because he knows that Cooper is right — more right than he knows — and because all Red wants is to be out of there and on his way, he reels in his anger. It's much more difficult than it should be, and he can feel Dembe's quiet concern at his back. Ever since Elizabeth disappeared, his power has been both stronger and more unpredictable, harder to manage. He doesn't know if it's the fear, or just the increase in the intensity of basically every feeling he has.

Focusing hard, he directs a sharp look at Cooper.

"Aram?" Cooper says, gesturing for the tech to step forward.

The younger man is fidgeting and nervous, clearly even more ill at ease than usual. "R-right," he stammers. "W-w-well…"

Unwilling for this briefing to take an hour — and perhaps feeling a bit guilty for the oppressive atmosphere — Red exerts himself to send out a wave of calm.

The warmth causes Aram's frame to ease almost immediately, and he visibly collects himself. "The Hoyntzman Mental Health Centre," he says, far more confidently. "From all appearances, exactly what it purports to be — a small private institution that specializes in severe cases of depression and psychosis. It's run by a partnership of four doctors, all with clean reputations."

"What about the funding?" Red asks.

"Aside from patient fees, it's funded by a number of charities," Aram answers. "They're all listed on the Centre's website. But it's a front. I haven't been able to dig too deeply yet, but I've gotten far enough to see that the money's being funneled from somewhere else — just one place, I think."

Now, they were getting somewhere.

"Patients?" His fingers tap rapidly against his thigh as his mind calculates briskly.

"They have room for ten. From what I could find out, they're full at the moment." Interpreting Red's look, he continues quickly. "The patient list is obviously confidential, and is held securely. Since we didn't want to raise any alarms, I wasn't sure how far to go."

Red's temper flares again in frustration, but Aram is right, so he tamps it down and gestures for the other man to continue.

"The most interesting thing about the place is that six months ago, it didn't exist. The building was an upscale rehab centre in the nineties, but it's been empty since 2003. The land and building were purchased about nine months ago by a Dr Trevor Wilkes — he's one of the group that runs the place."

"Obviously acting as a proxy," Red muses. "So, pertinent information: it's newly purchased and renovated, likely for the sole purpose of hiding Agent Milhoan. It does have a public face, however, which means there will likely be patients and medical staff on site. These people may be part of the operation, or may be completely innocent. Relax, Harold," he adds, catching Cooper's deep frown. "We won't be attacking the place like we're storming the Bastille. Any chance you managed blueprints, Aram?"

"I couldn't find the architect," Aram answers. "But the blueprints were on file with the city, just like they should be." He moves back to his desk and has them up on the wall screen in a few clicks.

"Staying under the radar," Red murmurs, stepping closer for a better look.

Dembe moves up beside him and snaps a few quick photos with his phone, then busies himself with it — sending the plans on to Baz, Red assumes gratefully. It's a simple layout, two arms on either side of a central hub, marked as a reception area. One side for patient rooms and a common area; the other for offices and a kitchen, a laundry room. There are only three doors to the outside, which makes things relatively easy.

"Did you get anything on Luther Braxton?"

Aram frowns. "Just the basics, I'm afraid. Luther Braxton is a thief, a mercenary, a thug. Interpol has been chasing him for years, but sometime this past year, he disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Red's head snaps around, nerves quivering.

"Dropped off the grid completely," Aram confirms. "Rumour has it he got hired for a big job, but it's a complete blackout. I couldn't find anything on what he might be doing, or who he might be doing it for. If I had more time…" He trails off and shrugs apologetically.

Red takes a few breaths. It's a certainty, then, that Luther is involved, which isn't great news. Just another complication, he supposes, and if he has to go through Braxton to get to Elizabeth, he will. Otherwise, he will leave the mercenary to Dembe; his sole concern now is reaching Lizzie before it's too late. None of this is Aram's fault, however, and he claps the tech on the shoulder with a smile.

"Thank you, Aram. Your help is much appreciated, as always." He turns to Cooper. "I'll let you know when we have her safe." No other possibility can even be considered.

"Reddington, look," Cooper starts.

"I told you, Harold, you want no part of this," Red cuts him off neatly. "Besides, the only field-worthy agent left in this place is _you_ — and your talents are certainly better served elsewhere."

Cooper sighs in resignation. "Fine," he says, suddenly sounding exhausted. "Please try not to cause an international incident."

Red laughs, completely without humour, and heads for the elevator, Dembe at his side.

"Reddington," Cooper calls after him.

He stops walking, turns only his head.

"Bring her home."

He turns back, and leaves without a word. But, he vows silently, he _will._ He will bring Elizabeth home, or die in the attempt.

* * *

"They called him The Courier," Liz says. "He always delivered — because he carried his cargo inside his body. He had CIPA; he couldn't feel pain."

"How gruesome," Dr Wilkes says with a grimace. "Tell me, Elizabeth, are you a fan of horror novels?"

She laughs. "Not at all!" she protests. "I…" she hesitates, blushing a little. "I like romance novels. Tom always teases me, he says…" She stops suddenly, shocked.

"Elizabeth? Is something wrong?"

"No," she says, wondering. "Just…Tom always teases me about being a sucker for a happy ending. He says I'm a hopeless romantic." She looks up at the doctor, her eyes shining. "That's a memory, isn't it? I'm starting to get my life back?"

"It's certainly a very positive sign," the doctor says warmly, returning her smile. "Why don't you tell me more?"

The picture in her mind wavers a little — was it someone else who used to say that? — then firms again as she brings Tom's face to the forefront. And talks about her life, real and imagined.

* * *

"Start earlier — before the fire this time. It's too traumatic, we're getting nowhere."

"When do you want her?"

"Try when she left Russia with her mother."

Dr Orchard nods, and turns back to her patient, wishing she didn't have to do this again. "Elizabeth, can you hear me?"

Liz nods slowly, her eyes closed in her trance, her lips slightly parted.

"Do you have the image of yourself in your mind? The image of Mariya?"

"Yes," Liz answers.

"Remember Mariya," Dr Orchard says. "Be that little girl again."

It only takes a few deep breaths now, before Liz is immersed in memory.

"Where am I?" she asks, her voice high and a little frightened.

"Mariya?" Liz nods again. "It's Dr Orchard, do you remember me?" Yet another nod. "I need to ask you some more questions. Do you remember the big trip you took with your mother? You came all the way to America."

"It's dark," Liz answers.

"Is that what you see?" Dr Orchard asks, confused.

"It's nighttime," Liz explains. "Mama comes to my room and wakes me up. She says we're going to play a game, but she's scared. I don't think she's going to have any fun."

"What do they take with them?" Dr Wilkes asks in a low voice.

"Do you take bags or suitcases?" Dr Orchard repeats obediently.

Liz shakes her head. "We don't take _anything._ Mama says we can get everything we need later. She makes me get dressed, so I make sure I'm wearing my favourite sweater."

"That's smart," Dr Orchard says carefully. "Does your mother have a purse?"

"She just has a little bag on her back. I bring my bunny and she says that's okay, but I have to hold on to it. I'm responsible." She nods firmly.

"Do you know where you're going?"

"We're playing hide-and-seek," Liz says, with a little girl's giggle. "We're going to hide all the way across the ocean and hope that Papa can't find us."

* * *

The Centre is a lonely place, Red thinks, as they park just far enough away that their vehicles won't be easily seen or heard. He supposes that the isolation is necessary for a number of different reasons, and it looks peaceful and pleasant enough in the early morning sun.

Baz is behind him, issuing orders in a voice that is quiet and commanding at the same time. There will be three teams, one for each door. Each team will have two people armed with tranquilizer guns, and two armed with bullets. The instructions as given are to knock out anyone they see that is unarmed, and to shoot to harm only if threatened in kind.

Baz is now passing around a photo of Liz — _the target,_ he says, making Red angry again. With a wince, Baz rephrases.

"This woman is our goal today. Her safety is paramount — if you are the first to find her, do whatever is necessary to get her safely back here."

Red turns inward briefly; he knows the drill, and he doesn't need to listen anymore. What he _does_ need to do is find the cold focus that has been his strength for two decades, that has allowed him to do all of the terrible things required of him. It is eluding him today, the hot pulse of his anger and the slimy shiver of fear combining into an unpleasant stew inside him.

"Just breathe, Raymond."

He starts; he'd been so absorbed in his inner turmoil that he hadn't noticed Dembe step up beside him.

"I can't," he admits. "I can't remember ever feeling this uncertain. The goal is clear, but…"

"You are afraid," Dembe says gently. "Afraid of what we'll find inside that building. But if you are to help Elizabeth, you must face it, one way or another."

"I know what I have to do," Red answers, a touch impatiently. "I just can't seem to find…calm. The detachment I need to get it done."

Dembe shrugs. "If you cannot quiet your anger, your fear — use them. Let them fuel your purpose and be your drive. As long as you stay in control, these emotions can be just as useful as calm."

Red closes his eyes, then nods. He takes two long, deep breaths, now that he is able to.

"Yes," he says, his voice even again. "You're right, of course. Thank you." He grips Dembe's shoulder in rough affection.

The other man smiles back. "Let's go then," he says. "And get Elizabeth back."

Red nods sharply, and the two men separate, each running with a different team. Red prefers to lead, but both Dembe and Baz have flatly refused to allow him to be first through the door into a complete unknown. He brings up the rear of his group, simmering with impatience.

They move in a swift trot across the grass, eerily silent. He casts for her as he gets closer, seeking amid the world of emotions for the hot bright spark that is uniquely _Lizzie._ He still cannot find it; cannot find _her._ He refuses to think about what this might mean, so he can keep moving.

So he can get her back.

* * *

"You're at your new house, in America. Are you excited?"

Liz makes a face. "Uh uh. It's too hot here, and this house is small and it smells funny. Mama cries when she thinks I'm asleep."

"Is anyone else with you there?"

"Men all in black are outside _all_ the time. They think I can't see them, but I'm not stupid."

"Anyone else?" Dr Orchard prods gently. "Does anyone come to talk to your mother? Ask her questions?"

Liz brightens. "Yes," she says. "Always the same man. He has _yellow_ hair! Mama is awfully polite to him."

"Do they just talk? Does your mother ever give the man anything?"

Liz frowns. "I–I don't know. I don't think so."

Dr Orchard looks over her shoulder, but Wilkes shakes his head. "Press her," he says quietly.

"Mariya, we need to know. Who is the man who visits your mother?"

Liz sighs. "Mama calls him Ray-Mund, but he says his friends call him Red, so I call him _Krasnyj_ instead. He's nice to me."

"Does he ask _you_ questions?"

"No." Liz shakes her head. "He brings me a book. I can't read the words, but the pictures are pretty to look at. Sometimes he brings us food." She giggles. "My first hamburger!"

"He sounds like a good friend," Dr Orchard says. "Does your mother give him anything back?"

"She…she tells him everything he needs is in one place, it's all on the Ful…Fulcrum. It's a strange word. I ask her what it means, and she says, _change._ It will change everything."

"Yes," Dr Wilkes snaps out. "That's it — the Fulcrum. _Where is it?"_

Liz whimpers and starts to toss restlessly.

"Shut up," Dr Orchard hisses. "Don't interrupt." She turns back to Liz and holds her hand. "It's okay, Mariya, no one will hurt you here. Remember now, your mother has something for your new friend. The Fulcrum — does she give it to him?"

"N–no…no, she doesn't. She won't give it to him until we're safe for sure."

"Where is it, Mariya? Where does she keep it?"

"I don't know," Liz says, a whine in her voice. She starts to shake. "I don't _know._ I don't even know what it _is._ How do you give someone a change?"

"_Where is it, dammit?"_ Wilkes yells, patience gone. "_WHERE?!"_

Liz screams, then starts to cry. "Mama, Mama, Papa's here! Mama, help, _fire! Our house, Mamaaaa…"_

Her body starts to seize, the monitor going wild.

"We have to stop," Dr Orchard says, truly alarmed now, turning to grab a syringe from the table.

"No!" Wilkes shouts. "We're so close — ask again!"

"I _will not,"_ Dr Orchard says. "I won't kill this woman for you. You'll have to wait."

She injects Liz swiftly, then rubs her arm soothingly, smoothing the tangled hair from her sweaty forehead, until Liz quiets and lies still.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers.

* * *

Red generally prefers the unexpected direction, but he's so tense and panicky that he waves Dembe to move to the side door while his team takes the main entrance. Baz and his team will come in through the back, just past the reception area into the common room. While the team lead skillfully picks the heavy lock on the wooden doors, Red crouches, impatient, until hissed confirmations come over the coms.

Then, _finally, _they are moving, swift and silent through the entrance. A woman at the front desk in pink scrubs leaps to her feet at the sight of them, her scream cut off nearly before it begins by a well-aimed tranq. He can see Dembe's team filling the corridor on one side, starting to check doors; Baz' men in the common room on the other side, smoothly darting the few people that sit there.

He takes this all in in mere seconds, then he is moving fast. The first woman's scream, abbreviated though it was, has summoned security — he can hear booted feet behind him. He ignores it, and dashes for the patient hallway. His team follows behind, well-disciplined, and start checking doors, peering in institutional windows, but instinct drives Red onward.

He doesn't stop moving until he reaches the final two doors; following an inner nudge, he turns to his left and opens the door without pausing to look inside.

And there, caught in the act of turning toward the door, healthy and whole, unharmed and lovely, is the woman he has been searching for.

He says her name, almost disbelieving, on a breath of air.

"_Lizzie."_


	8. Issue 18: Conclusions

She is thoroughly sick and tired of the Centre — the dull, narrow room, the regulated schedule, the bland meals. The daily sessions with Dr Wilkes, filled with endless probing questions about her catatonic hallucinations, as if he wishes to dissect them for reasons of his own rather than help her move past them.

Sessions in which time appears to move at double speed, so that they are far longer than she can ever manage to consciously grasp. As a result, they leave her drained and exhausted, and she never has time to catch up. She wants to be in her own home, even if she can't quite remember it. She wants her own routine, in which she can sleep later than seven in the morning, and have a satisfying cup of coffee whenever she wants.

If she can just leave this place, she thinks maybe she'll be able to get warm again.

She continues a mild campaign for release, with both the doctor and Tom. They prove resistant at first, worried over a potential relapse, no matter how much she insists she is fine. But as the days pass, as more memories come, unbidden — she and Tom's favourite restaurant; how he teases her over her abysmal cooking; the way he is constantly losing his glasses — they begin to be more agreeable. Tom even starts to argue on her side.

Finally, Dr Wilkes agrees that although her breakdown was drastically severe, she does seem quite firmly rooted in reality now. Privately, she thinks it's a good thing she hasn't yet mentioned her dreams, which are becoming more hazy and indistinct every night. Her fantasy world — a world of superpowers and vigilantes, a shadowy list of dastardly criminals, a charismatic mentor to guide and protect her — seems very far away, like a story she read a long time ago.

Her mind, her heart, are full of other things now, simpler things. A home, a husband. A family of her own. She just wants to start _living_ again.

And then, suddenly, it happens.

Tom shows up before breakfast, right on the heels of Sophie with the day's pills. The nurse smiles at them fondly, and although it's too early for visitors, winks at them and bustles back out, leaving the pill cup on the bedside table. Tom sits on the side of Liz' bed while she shoves herself up on her pillows.

"Today's the day, babe!" he says, bubbling over with happiness.

At first, still sleepy, she draws a blank — the day has only just started, after all. He grins at her, all boyish enthusiasm.

"Time to go _home!_ I settled it with Dr Wilkes last night before I left," he says. "I wanted to surprise you."

Her heart leaps and huge smile spreads over her face. "I'm definitely surprised," she replies, although a niggling little voice mutters that they shouldn't have decided without her. Determined to be happy — after all, she's getting exactly what she wanted — she brushes the voice aside.

"It's _wonderful_ news," she says earnestly, tugging her sleep shirt back over her shoulder. His eyes follow her hand with an unfamiliar light. "I can't wait to be home."

Tom's smile is sharp, suddenly, his eyes dark. "I can't wait to have you there," he murmurs, reaching out to tuck her sleep-ruffled hair behind her ear. He reaches out and pulls her shirt away again; presses his lips to her collarbone.

It surprises her, and she sucks in her breath, short and fast.

He licks his lips in a quick flick, and then he's kissing her, cupping her face in his hands. She kisses him back, letting her happiness carry her through her initial surprise and discomfort. But he's unusually forceful, his tongue strong in her mouth, searching out every corner; his hands hard where they touch her. She's not quite sure how to respond; before she can, he's pressing her back against her pillow, his slim body surprisingly heavy over her own.

She grips the back of his shirt, startled, but this just pulls him closer and seems to inspire him. His hands begin to roam, fast and a little rough, one palming her breast and the other landing over her hip and pulling her into him. She makes a noise, almost involuntarily, unsure herself what it means. He seems to take it as encouragement, though, and shoves under the linens, sliding his hand under her nightshirt and along her bare thigh.

She thinks distantly that it should feel better, somehow. More welcome, more familiar, more…_something._ That she should feel something more than apprehension; that she shouldn't be able to dissect every movement so clinically. That the hard press of him between her legs should make her feel something other than uncomfortable, something other than _afraid._ And somehow, even with her bedding still covering most of her and Tom's body over that, even with the intensity of their interaction…she is still so _cold._

Tom moves his mouth to lay a row of kisses down her neck, recalling her errant thoughts to the moment.

"Tom," she says, hesitant, still not entirely sure what's wrong.

"Mmm," he says, still focused on her neck. "_Liz."_

His voice sounds unfocused, sort of foggy and distracted, and she wonders why she doesn't feel the same. She tells herself that it's surely just the situation — after all, Sophie could come back any second. It wouldn't do to get in trouble now, when she's about to go home.

"Tom," she repeats, "we can't, not here. There's no privacy, and I…I just don't feel right about it."

It takes a long moment before he pulls away, sitting back reluctantly. She pushes herself up and pulls her knees into her chest, watching him. He smiles at her, the gentler, warmer Tom that she is used to.

"I guess I got a little carried away," he says, reaching out to smooth her hair back again. His grin turns sheepish. "But you were so sweet and lovely, all mussed up from sleeping, and I've _really_ missed you, babe."

She smiles back, touches his face lightly. "There'll be lots of time," she says shyly. "When we're home again." She lets her cheek rest against his hand briefly, to take any sting from her words. "I guess I can pack," she adds, delighted at the thought and eager to change the subject.

"Don't rush," Tom says with a chuckle. "I have to take care of the paperwork to get you sprung."

"Do you think Dr Wilkes is here yet?"

Tom's smile broadens to a grin, making his eyes crinkle at the corners. He really _is_ attractive, she thinks, and they get along so well. If there's some sort of…spark, or heat that feels missing, surely it's just the environment. _It's normal to be uncomfortable in a hospital room, right?_

"A little impatient?" he asks. "Me too. He told me he'd be in first thing — why don't I go and see while you get dressed? Tell you what," he continues, "I'll tell Sophie to skip your breakfast, and we can go out for pancakes on the way home."

_I don't like pancakes,_ she thinks. _Shouldn't he know that?_ But he's clearly trying hard, so she nods with some enthusiasm. "Real food at last!" she says, and laughs.

"Your bag is in the closet," he says, and kisses her again, swift and fleeting this time, then stands up and strides out of the room.

_Home, _she thinks. _I'm going home._

She lets the happiness of the thought sweep away all her doubts and questions, and hops out of bed. She had showered the night before, in another futile attempt to get warm and stay that way, so she uses the washroom and dresses quickly, eager again. She finds the bag in the closet as advertised, and places it on the bed; starts gathering her clothes and packing them away.

She's just fishing the last of her bottoms out of a dresser drawer when noises start to filter in from the hallway. At first, it just seems like people moving around — nothing to be particularly alarmed about. But then…they _do_ seem to be moving a bit quickly, almost running. And _then_ come muffled pops; voices shouting; dull thuds and bumps.

_A fight,_ she thinks, _an attack? What on earth?_

Frightened, with no weapon at hand, she turns to face her door just as it swings open, and a man steps inside. A man who has no business here. A man whom she has done her best to scrub from her mind over the past weeks.

Quite literally, the man of her dreams.

_Reddington._

He's staring at her with an expression of such overwhelming joy and relief that she takes a step forward before she can think.

"_Lizzie,"_ he breathes, like she's the answer to a prayer.

* * *

He can barely believe his eyes — it's been so long, and his mind has conjured so many terrible things. But she stands before him, maybe a little thin, a little pale, but still. Whole. Well. With every appearance of being merely a visitor in this place, rather than a prisoner. Her door hadn't even been locked.

But.

But while he gazes at her, his joy so vibrant that he can barely breathe, she is staring at him with the panicked eyes of an animal caught in a trap.

"Lizzie," he says again, moving further into the room, away from the door. "I've come for you, sweetheart."

To his dismay, instead of coming to him, responding, or at the very least, smiling, she shakes her head, her hand coming up to cover her mouth as she shrinks away into herself.

_What on earth?_

His senses fill with her confusion, with panic, fear, misery — certainly not what he expected, and he's quite confused now, himself.

"Lizzie?" Once more, a question this time. He sends with it what reassurance he can muster, along with affection and concern.

"No." She finally speaks, and it's a forlorn whimper that he can barely hear. "No, you can't be here."

"Don't be afraid, sweetheart," he says, wondering what her captors have done to her that makes her so terrified of their retribution. "I'm here to take you home. They won't hurt you anymore."

He wants to say, _I'm rescuing you,_ like a bold knight errant, like the champion he has never been. But in the face of her abject horror, he can't bring himself to say the foolish words. She is shaking her head again, pressed back against the dresser in the corner of the room; to his shock, tears start to roll down her cheeks.

"He's not here," she says, tremulous, as if to herself. "He's _not real."_

Shock rips through him, leaving him breathless and bereft of sensible thought. _Not real?_ He's spent weeks concocting scenarios of what might be happening to her, what healing might be required — this is completely out of his range of expectation. Beyond even his wildest guesses.

"What do you mean?" he asks, starting to feel faintly nauseated from the constant bombardment of her fear. "Lizzie, _of course_ I'm real. I'm right here in front of you. You're _safe_ now."

She's mumbling something, but it is definitely to herself rather than to him; he moves closer to hear her better.

"This isn't real," she's saying fiercely. "Don't do this, don't let yourself go; stay grounded, Liz. Focus on what's real, you can do this, focus, focus."

Her fists are clenched at her sides, and she has shut her eyes tightly in concentration. Her panic is overwhelming; he's finding it difficult to counter and it's making him edgy in turn. He wants to pull her into his arms, to hold her close and comfort her, has wanted nothing else for weeks, but now…now he worries that if he touches her, she will shatter.

"Elizabeth," he says quietly, breaking into her litany. "Sweetheart, tell me what's wrong."

She opens her eyes and moans in misery when she still sees him standing there. He is completely at a loss.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he says soothingly, pitching his voice low and easy.

Then, suddenly, relief pours out of her, and he relaxes until he realizes that she's looking _past_ him, at the open doorway. He can feel the hesitation of the person who has come to the door behind him, can almost _hear_ the other person thinking rapidly.

"Oh, _Tom,"_ Liz cries. "Thank goodness you're here."

In a rush of swift footsteps, the newcomer moves past him without acknowledging him at all; as if he is invisible.

"Liz, what's wrong?" the stranger says, nothing but warm concern in his voice.

Red can only see part of him — he looks to be in his mid-thirties, with messy dark hair and fashionable stubble, wire-framed glasses and a grey t-shirt.

"They're back," Liz says unhappily, reaching for the stranger. "I'm hallucinating, I'm losing it again, Tom, _help me!"_

The strange man — Tom? — wraps his arms around Liz, murmuring in a reassuring sort of way. Red is overcome with the desire to shoot first and ask questions later, but he can't seem to move.

"It's okay, babe," Tom is saying. "I'm here now. Whatever you're seeing, it's not real. There's just you and me here."

_What? What. The. Hell?_

Red cannot let this continue, or he, too, will go mad. "The two of you," he says, all sardonic courtesy. "And _me,_ your uninvited plus one. I don't mean to intrude, of course, but Elizabeth and I really _must_ dash."

She's shaking now, what he can still see of her, and he wonders how good the FSB suppression drug really is. He spots the little white pill cup on the bedside table, still full. Considering, he probes more deeply, searching for the spark at the core of her being. She's so empty it shocks him, but he lets himself sink further and further in, and _there_ it is, way, way down deep. _Finally,_ the tiniest, merest flicker of a spark. He leaves a part of his consciousness there to nurture it, and help it grow.

Meanwhile, Tom is still crooning soothing words, holding Elizabeth's shoulders so that he can look into her eyes — and handily block her view of the rest of the room. "It's just you and me, Liz. Don't leave me again. Please, _please,_ stay with me, babe."

Red isn't completely sure what has gone on here, but his mind is quick and clever, and there have been enough hints. They seem to have somehow convinced her that _he_ is some kind of delusion — this _is _a mental health facility, after all. If he just kills this bastard and drags her out of here, he may traumatize her beyond recovery.

What he must do, then, is prove that whatever they've told her is a lie. He must prove his own reality — an odd position to be in, to be sure, but then, he's somewhat of an expert in bizarre situations. He listens with half an ear to the soothing poison this "Tom" is uttering, and decides that the quickest and easiest route will be to make this scoundrel acknowledge his presence.

He grins, then — he is going to enjoy this.

* * *

She is lost — lost, confused, afraid. Face-to-face with her own delusions once again, and _still_ there's a tiny corner of her that's glowing with joy, that screams at her to run to him. Is the imagined world really so preferable to the real one?

And what does that say about _her?_

She whispers to herself with determination, begging her mind to stop, to set her free. And yet…wrapped around her, snug and warm, cutting through the miasma of her terror, is an overwhelming _relief._ It's Red's, it should be part of the delusion, but it is so strong and vital, so full of love…so tempting.

But then, thank god, Tom is there, holding her to the present, talking her down, anchoring her. With him in front of her, she can't see anything else, and she starts to breathe normally again. But then, Reddington's voice, loud and clear — _he doesn't like being ignored,_ she thinks automatically.

Of course, Tom isn't _ignoring_ him, Tom just can't see or hear him. _That's right, isn't it?_

Now, in a series of movements almost too fast for her to track, everything changes, swiftly, horribly. She feels Red's cold fury settle over the room, familiar, frightening, dangerous. Tom stiffens — _why? Can he…_

Red's thick arm is wrapped around Tom's neck, yanking him away from her. _How? What's happening?_ She's dizzy and lost again, her vision blurring in and out. When she focuses, Tom is…hitting…back. _Real, it's real, _he's _real._ The two men trade blows, heavy punches to the face and upper body; Tom's nose is bleeding and Red has a vicious-looking split over his left eye. Every landed _thump_ is another blow to her psyche.

Neither of them can seem to gain the advantage, when suddenly, Red doubles over with a startled grunt. Tom is behind her in a rush, one arm wrapped tight around her neck, the chill of a knife blade kissing her skin, breath harsh in her ear. She realizes he is using her as a shield.

Red straightens, a hand pressed into his side, chest heaving. His rage is still palpable in the air. When he sees her, a target now, a hostage, she wonders that Tom can stay standing in the face of such savage wrath. His gun is out and pointed at Tom in one smooth draw. Then, he takes in her expression — her face streaked with more tears, the devastation scarring her features.

Then, he looks at her with such empathy, she almost falls, _would_ have fallen but for the arm at her throat. Her whole life is dissolving, _again,_ all around her, and for a few terrible moments, the strain of it threatens to break her. She's screaming so loudly on the inside, she can't understand why all three of them aren't deafened by it.

And it _hurts._ It hurts so much, she thinks it might be easier to die, and just fall into oblivion. All she has to do is step into the knife. She pushes forward a little, letting it slice into her; the flash of physical pain, hot blood on her skin, centres her once more.

Red makes a choked sort of noise, distracting her. She lets herself find an anchor in his turbulent grey eyes, a tangle of emotions that echoes her own.

"You all lied to me," she says faintly, the first words that come to mind.

Tom laughs, a much uglier sound than the warm chuckle she's grown accustomed to.

"Of course we did," he says derisively. "And it was much easier than Wilkes thought it would be."

Though she can no longer see his face, the sneer is evident in his voice, and some of her fright dissolves into anger. Anger is good, strong — anger, she can use. But then.

"But I knew," Tom continues. "I've watched you, you know, for a long time. I knew you'd believe everything we told you — because you'd _want_ to. Because you hate yourself. Poor Liz, so lonely, so hungry for love." His every word a slicing razor blade; his tone a mocking jeer. "So filled with pathetic self-loathing. Just wishing she could be 'normal.' _And I was right."_

She thinks she might vomit, filled with horror and shame. He'd _watched_ her? For how long? How could she not have noticed? How could Sam? What had he seen?

"You...watched me," is all she can manage to say out loud, her thoughts locked inside.

Another harsh laugh. "I lived right across the street from you for over a year, _babe,_ and you never even saw me. Cloned your cell phone, bugged your apartment. The last old man was pretty good about finding them, but I'm guessing he didn't tell _you_ about it. After he disappeared, you never seemed to notice."

"He was my _father,"_ she hisses, anger welling back up to the front of her tumult of feelings.

"Was he? What about _him?"_ The knife leaves her throat briefly to gesture at Red. "What _is_ it about you and old guys, huh? You could do better — you're pretty enough, have a sweet body. I sure wasn't going to mind fucking you. Hell, I'll still enjoy it, once we're through here."

She remembers his mouth on hers, his hands on her skin, and tears start to run in earnest, bile thick in her throat. She'd rather the knife again than these terrible words.

Red had his gun carefully where she assumes Tom's head is, his face grim. But when the wave of shame and misery hits him, the ugly speech, he flinches back. His arm moves and the gun goes off; he hits Tom directly in the elbow jutting away from Liz. Tom's arm, unfortunately, only jerks and then tightens in reaction; he shouts in pain, but doesn't move.

He appears to be well trained.

Red smiles at her then, eyes full of sorrow. A fresh blanket of empathy, of comfort and reassurance settles around her, helping her breathe.

"You can shoot me," Tom is saying, breath harsh in her ear. "Right in the head, if you think your aim is good enough. If you think you can hit me, and not her. But I'll slit her throat before I go down, I swear it."

She wants to howl; her husband, her enemy. _Who is he?_

Red looks at him with icy hatred. "You won't leave here alive," he says. "How you die is up to you." Then he flicks his gaze to her. "Lizzie, step away from him."

She gapes at him blankly. "I can't. He–he'll kill me," she stutters, still not quite believing it, her beleaguered and abused mind still struggling to catch up. Her own blood still warm on her neck, the only warmth she's felt in _ages._

Red raises a sardonic eyebrow, and the expression is so achingly familiar that it makes her feel a little better.

"I'm sure you can deal with that," he replies coolly.

She catches his implication after only a moment, and then realizes something she hadn't until right then.

"The fire…if Red is real, _all of it_ is real. You–you people took it from me," she whispers, her hand pressing hard to her roiling stomach. "You took the fire from me. _How?"_

"Drugs," Red says succinctly. "They figured out a way, and they stole from you; stole an integral part of you, would have taken more. They would have taken _everything._ Does that," and now his voice is sly as well as cold, "make you angry?"

It does, it _really_ does, so suddenly and so fiercely that it surprises her. Red seems to be concentrating hard on something, only half paying attention to her now, and she is so torn and angry and unhappy and afraid. Her shaking intensifies, like a seizure — maybe she'll just shake apart, and disappear.

"What's going on?" Tom says, a note of worry in his voice. "Just get out of the way, grandpa."

"No." Simple and direct. "Let her go, and I'll shoot you and let you die easily — a better death than vermin like you deserves."

Tom laughs again, a stranger, hard and cruel. "I think you're mistaken about who has the upper hand here."

While the two men speak, Liz struggles in utter turmoil. Her mind, in pieces; her emotions, a storm of confusion. But in the cold, hollow space inside her, a space that had long since become a lonely, dull ache, there is a flicker. Of warmth, of light.

A flicker that is intimately familiar.

Suddenly, her fear, confusion, and misery are all smothered by pure fury. Her fingers start to twitch, her nerves jumping. Red is smiling, but it's the particular smile that means something very unpleasant is about to happen to someone else.

"Perhaps I am," he says to Tom, soft, deadly. "But so, I think, are you."

_I'm so sorry, sweetheart,_ he thinks fiercely, hoping she can feel it. Then, he gives one last, powerful push, with all the mental strength he has, of all the negative emotions he contains. The fear and sorrow at losing her; the frustration and worry of the long search; his rage and dismay at the merest inkling of what has been done to her.

She is shuddering so violently that he fears for a moment that something has gone horribly wrong. Despite her captor's hold, her back arches in a painful spasm, and her head is thrown back to hit Tom's chin with a loud _crack._

"_What the hell is wrong with her?"_ Tom demands in a shout, and his panic is nothing but a pleasure to Red's senses.

And he doesn't have to answer, as it turns out.

Because just then, with a shattering scream caught between anguish and joy, triumph and pain, Elizabeth, at last, finds her power again.

Elizabeth, in a blinding flash of sheer, terrible beauty, bursts into flame.


	9. Issue 19: Results

Time seems frozen for a long, still moment.

The only sound is the incongruously cheerful crackle of fire, and the fading echo of a scream.

She is unutterably beautiful, he thinks in wonder, a glowing sinuous shape inside a flurry of flames. Her eyes, orange and bright, meet his, and they stare at one another in the hush.

The moment is broken by the clatter of Tom's knife hitting the floor; his howl of agony as his skin begins to burn, bubble, melt.

Red shakes himself alert again, calling sharply into his comm for Dembe, then focusing on the woman in front of him.

"Elizabeth?" he says cautiously, hoping against hope that she is not broken now, and lost to him.

She steps forward, reaching for him even as her captor falls screaming to the floor behind her, need flooding from her as if she doesn't consciously realize she still burns.

"R-R-Red," she manages, her voice thick with tears and horror. "_What's happening to me?"_

"Everything is coming right again," he says simply. "And we're leaving this place." _Keep things neutral and matter-of-fact._ "Is that your bag?" He indicates the half-full duffel on the bed.

"Y-Yes, but, but my books are there beside the bed, and Sam's watch is in the drawer."

As he'd hoped, the calm talk of prosaic things helps her start to quiet again, her flame sinking closer to her body and deepening in colour. The frantic swirl of her emotions has begun to steady as well, allowing him to relax a fraction. He nods in response to her directions, moving swiftly around the room collecting her possessions.

Neither of them pay any mind to the blazing figure on the floor, whose shrieks have subsided to rasping sobs.

"Red," Liz says again, sounding lost. "Are you really real?"

He stops moving and faces her, longing to take her into his arms, his heart aching.

"I am, sweetheart," he replies softly. "You're safe now, Lizzie."

Dembe appears in the doorway, and Liz starts, her flame flashing high again with alarm.

"It's okay, Lizzie." Red hastens to her side, as close to her as he can manage. "It's Dembe, he's here with me. You remember Dembe, don't you?"

She nods, but the movement is tentative, unsure. Dembe looks at the two of them, concern etched deeply into his face.

"Raymond–"

At an apparent loss, he gestures at the still-writhing lump behind them. Red glances back, then shrugs — a painful and prolonged death seems only what this blackguard deserves. Dembe frowns at him disapprovingly, and he sighs. He supposes that quieting the hoarse wails of pain might help Lizzie to center herself. Almost casually, he turns and puts a bullet directly into Tom's head.

The resulting silence is deafening.

Liz turns slowly, and he thinks her piteous expression is more painful, more poignant than weeping. Her flame flickers low, turning tremulous.

"I don't– I don't know…"

Her eyes go blank then, and he can _feel_ her blink out of consciousness. He reaches out and catches her even as her flame disappears, stinging his hands and making his shirt smoke faintly. He cradles her close regardless of the small pain, unwilling to let her go now that he has her safe.

Then, as the flame subsides completely, he realizes with a start that she is naked in his arms, whatever clothing they had given her not made to withstand the fire. He makes a concerted effort not to look at her too closely, while still cherishing the impression of long limbs and gentle curves, gathering her neatly against his chest.

If he savours the feel of her in his arms, soft and warm and delicate, the guilt is offset by the worry caused by her evident weight loss and the dullness of her skin.

"Dembe," he says, shielding her carefully, "pass me the blanket from her bed, would you?"

Understanding instantly, the way he always seems to, Dembe pulls the thin blanket free and flicks it carefully over and past Red's head, so that it drapes tidily over Elizabeth without Red having to move. Red takes the time to wrap the ends around her, so she is completely covered, before he turns around.

"We need all the files from a Dr Wilkes," he says crisply. "I must know _exactly_ what was done to her, and how. The authentic information may not be immediately visible — there could be a safe or a second computer; some way to keep it hidden."

"There were very few casualties," Dembe answers. "This doctor is likely still here and conscious."

Red feels cold all over, his rage sharp and flinty. Even as Dembe flinches at the lash of it, though, his arms around their precious burden remain gentle.

"See if he is, and make sure you get _everything_ — and find out if he's kept any records off-site. Then let Baz take charge of all those directly involved. Has there been any sign of Luther?"

Dembe inclines his head slightly. "He's tied up in reception. There are also a number of innocents here — other 'patients', staff — who seem to have no idea what is going on."

"Perhaps Harold will be willing to take them on," Red muses. "I'm taking Elizabeth outside. Can you please see that her bag comes with us?" He starts to leave, then pauses. "On second thought, it's probably best to bring every scrap of paperwork you can find, regardless of where; computers too."

He strides out of the room and down the hall; moves through the common area to the garden at the back of the Centre. He finds a bench under a broad-branched tree and sits, holding her close, keeping an ear on the controlled chaos continuing behind them.

He stays there for some time, emotions focused on the slight weight in his arms, waiting for it to be safe to take her away.

* * *

_Warmth._

It's the first thing she becomes aware of, filling her, wrapped around her. It's been so long since she felt warm that she stays very still and luxuriates in it for a long, lovely minute. It may be the closest to utter bliss that she has ever been.

The next thing she realizes is that she's not alone. A solid physicality surrounds her, a hand gently stroking her hair; an equally solid mental presence cushions her own, pulsing with its own warmth.

She is terribly uncertain. What will she see when she opens her eyes? What does she _want_ to see?

With no answers to her own questions, she takes the simplest route and lets her eyes flutter open.

A stormy grey-green gaze smiles down at her.

"Red," she whispers, happiness filling her. "You're still real."

She reaches out to clutch at his clothing with shaky fingers, the tangibility of it more than just comfort; it's _joy._ His own happiness dances around her, stroking at her just like his hands.

"I am," he says, his arms tightening around her. "And I've got you, safe and sound."

A third realization — she's tucked in Red's lap, wearing nothing but a blanket, his body cradling hers. She supposes she should move; find some clothes, sit beside him so they can talk.

Instead, she curls closer, shifting to rest her head on his shoulder and breathing in his familiar spicy scent. She has so many questions; still doesn't really understand what has happened to her. But it feels so _good_ to just be in his arms, safe and cared for.

"Where are we?" she asks, more for form than anything else.

"Somewhere over the Atlantic, at the moment."

"Are we going back to Switzerland?"

"For now," he says. "It's a good place to be quiet."

The weary lethargy that had plagued her throughout the time she'd spent at the Centre is still heavy in her bones, still making her ache. She lets herself sink a little further into Red's warmth, soaking in it like a hot bath. He presses his lips to her forehead, and she feels utterly content. Only when she feels herself slipping into sleep again does it occur to her that, after everything that has happened, she _shouldn't_ be feeling quite this relaxed.

"Red," she murmurs, so mellow that she is unable to be angry about it, winding her fingers into his sweater. "Are you…doing something to me?"

She feels him tense against her, and there's a lengthy pause before he answers.

"I'm terribly sorry, Lizzie — I know I promised you that I wouldn't. But with your flame just newly woken again, and us stuck on a plane for some time, it seemed…prudent to add a bit more security."

This actually makes sense, so she decides she won't bother getting angry when she has the opportunity. "It is sort of nice not to worry about it," she admits. "To really rest. _This_ time, at least. I just…I'm just so _glad_ you're real."

His hands flex where they hold her, and he turns to press his lips to her head. "Never doubt it," he says. "For better or worse, Lizzie, I'm with you; real, and always."

"Always," she repeats, on a long yawn. "_My_ Red," she mumbles, as she drops easily back into sleep.

Dembe, who has thoughtfully kept silent throughout their soft conversation, speaks quietly from across the cabin.

"Do you want help moving her, Raymond?"

Red replies instantly, without looking up. "She's fine here." He is unable to relinquish his hold on her, as if it is only his grip that keeps her with them. "She isn't heavy."

He doesn't need to look at Dembe to know that the other man is smiling; a moment later, Red hears him move out of the cabin to leave them in privacy. He eases further back into his seat, letting himself rest although he won't sleep.

His heart is very full as he watches over her, keeping her safe.

* * *

Back in Grimmentz, the golden glow of the early afternoon sun accentuating the peaceful beauty of their surroundings, he still cannot bring himself to leave her side. He can barely even stop touching her, light caresses to confirm that she's there, alive and whole and _real._

Eventually, he settles in a chair beside her bed, holding her hand. When she wakes up, panic flashing over her face, billowing from her like a cloud before her eyes even open, he knows that staying put was the right thing for both of them.

"It's okay, Lizzie," he croons, reaching to stroke her face with his free hand. "I'm here."

"Red," she says, voice croaky with sleep, expression easing instantly. "You're still real."

He smiles at her in pure happiness. "And you're still safe."

She pushes to sit upright, then wraps her arms around her knees, chewing her lip and frowning.

"What's wrong?" he asks, her doubt and confusion putting him on edge.

"I don't understand it," she says quietly. "I didn't just…_give in,_ Red, I'd never let…" She trails off and looks up at him, beseeching sad blue. "That life was real, too — I started to _remember_ it."

He aches with her pain, and he hopes desperately that she is as resilient as he believes; that her mind hasn't been permanently damaged.

"I haven't had time to go through everything as thoroughly as I mean to," he says. "But what I've gathered is that a combination of drugs and various mental manipulation techniques were used to _make_ it real for you. Deprivation, suggestion, hypnosis, guilt and shaming to increase self-doubt."

"When I first woke up at the Centre," she says slowly, "everyone spoke to me…not condescendingly, exactly, but sort of terribly _kindly,_ the way people talk to children. As if my 'delusions' were quite interesting, but common sense easily showed how silly I was."

He nods soberly. "Psychological manipulation is horribly insidious, sweetheart, and in combination with drugs to lower your resistance and keep you permanently exhausted — you didn't have a chance."

She looks like she can't decide whether to scream or cry, and the tangle of her emotions makes him want to gather up and cuddle her until she is herself again.

"But how could they make me remember things that never happened? That were never real?"

"Surely, as a psychologist, you know how powerful suggestion can be. Think about it, Lizzie, what do you think you remembered?"

She scrunches her face, thinking it over. It's absolutely adorable, and he suddenly wants to kiss her. He doesn't; schools himself to wait patiently for a better time. He thinks she must have caught a taste of what he's thinking, though, when she slants a smile at him.

"I missed you," she says softly. "So much, Red. Even when they _had_ broken me; when I believed everything they said, you haunted me. I dreamt of you, always."

Now, of course, he has no choice.

He leans over, cupping her face in his hands, and kisses her, long and soft and gentle. He lingers, can't help it; lets himself simmer in her familiar flavour until she sighs and uncurls herself to wrap her arms around him. He shifts from the chair onto the bed beside her and they just hold each other for few minutes. It's comforting for them both, letting life settle into being _right_ once again.

They end up sitting beside one another, leaning against the wall, legs stretched out and hands clasped. The air is clearer; their emotions calmer.

"So, what _do_ you remember?"

"Nothing specific, not a particular event — more just little details about my life, about…Tom and I."

She feels him tense beside her; his hand in hers tightens slightly.

"Your husband," he says, dry as a desert.

She flushes, although she's not really embarrassed about it; she is at least as angry as he is, and probably much more.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," he says, pressing his cheek to her hair. "You certainly have nothing to apologize for. Go on — what kind of details do you mean?"

"Well," she says, "like the way he'd tease me about my cooking. And it's true, you know — I'm hopeless in the kitchen."

"Then it would be easy to enforce, wouldn't it?" he pointed out. "Did he ever say anything to you about it?"

"Why would he? I wasn't doing any cooking in the fake mental hospital." She can't quite keep the bitterness from her tone.

He squeezes her hand again, this time in comfort. "Are you sure? Think carefully — it needn't have been overt."

"I really don't–" she starts, but now a wave of realization comes from her in a rush. "Oh," she says, and her voice has become hesitant and small. "He was with me a few times, when they brought food and he always made a joke. 'I bet you even miss _your_ cooking', or something like that. 'That looks wretched — even worse than that noodle casserole, remember?'" She twists to look up at him miserably. "Is it really that easy to just _remake_ a person?"

He releases her hand to wrap his arms around her again. "Not _easy,_ not at all," he says. "It takes a great deal of knowledge, skill, and planning. And don't forget, they were wearing you down in other ways as well."

"His glasses," she says, her breath warm on his neck. "I thought I remembered him losing them all the time, but he planted that too — he left them in my room once and had to come back so he could drive home; he left them in the garden another time. He didn't even have to say anything."

"Like I said," he replies grimly. "Insidious."

She sits for a moment, trying to digest this new perspective. Red's arm around her is a comfort, but she can feel him restraining himself, and wonders what it is that he doesn't want her to know.

"Red?" she says hesitantly, needing to ask, but not sure if she really wants to hear his answer.

"Yes, Lizzie?"

"Are– Are you angry with me?"

He stiffens and pulls his arm free so he can turn them to face one another. In the grip of a strong emotion, she can tell, straining to be known but held tight by his ferocious will.

"Why on earth would I be angry?"

She lowers her eyes so that she doesn't have to see if his face changes; won't see his eyes if it turns out that she is right.

"Because I…I…" Her failings make her so ashamed, she can't even say the words.

His hand cups her chin and raises her reluctant head. "You can tell me anything, sweetheart — I _want_ to know what you're thinking, what you're feeling. How can I help if I don't know what's wrong?"

She takes a deep breath. "Are you angry at me, for failing you? For giving up on you and letting them take you from me?"

His face fills with such poignant tenderness that she very nearly bursts into tears.

"_Oh, Lizzie,"_ he says, so soft, so gentle, as if he worries she may break. "Of _course_ not." He grips her shoulders firmly, and she blinks rapidly, struggling for composure.

"Listen to me," he continues, firmer now, intent. "You are a _victim._ You didn't _let_ anyone hurt you; they manipulated, drugged, and abused you. What was done to you was just as brutal and unforgiving as any physical torture. You are _not_ responsible for what happened to you, sweetheart, do you understand?"

Shaken by the sincerity of his fervent words, by the deep-rooted conviction in his voice, she nods.

"Thank you," she says in a small voice. "But then…what are you hiding from me?"

He looks honestly puzzled. "Hiding from you? What do you mean?"

She sighs, puts her hand on his cheek. "You're keeping yourself buckled down so tightly I'm afraid you might hurt yourself," she says.

"Oh," he says, "well." He offers a rueful, unhappy smile. "I _am_ angry, Lizzie — but not at you. The people who did this to you, I wish…I can barely contain it. I keep it locked away so it won't hurt you, sweetheart, or raise the fire. Rage won't help you now."

"Red," she says, overcome. "I– oh, Red."

He kisses her, sudden, but soft and sweet. "I believe in us, Elizabeth. We can make it all right again, together."

She burrows into his arms, her heart full.

They sit, wrapped together, in silence for a bit, both lost in thought. Finally, Red lets her go and finds a smile for her.

"Do you feel up to a shower?" he asks. "And something to eat — you must be ravenous."

She hadn't thought of it until he mentioned it, but now that he has, she is _starving._

"Oh yes," she says, more than ready for a break to regroup. "Both would be lovely."

"All right, then," he says. "We still have some of your things, in the dresser. Meet me in the kitchen when you're ready."

* * *

He busies himself in the kitchen, shrugging off the weight of their conversation with the pleasure of caring for her. He focuses carefully on whipping up eggs, grating cheese; choosing a dense rye bread for toast. It might not be morning, but eggs will be easy on her stomach, filling and nutritious.

He focuses hard, so that his treacherous mind doesn't call up the guilty images he now has and cannot forget. Flashes of her sleek nude body, a symphony of soft skin and enticing curves.

He tries instead to think of how he will explain the rest of the story he must tell her. The cold and brutal facts of the machinations and abuses of her captors.

He doesn't know how he'll make it all right for her.

He's sliding creamy scrambled eggs onto a plate when he hears her footsteps behind him and turns to greet her. When he sees her, his system jumps in alarm.

Her hair is still dripping, and she looks hastily dressed in loose pants and a tank top. She's frowning and rubbing at her right arm, and when she looks up at him, her eyes are dark and frightened.

"Red," she says, her voice high and tight. "My arm." She stretches it out for him, so he can see the multiple needle marks in the crook of her elbow; the deep tissue bruise that had formed underneath. "_What did they do to me?"_

He keeps himself as calm and level as possible, for both their sakes.

"Those are from an IV."

"But they took the IV out right after I woke up," she protests. "And my arm was _fine_ — I'm sure I would have noticed _this."_

He swallows hard, sympathy and anger battling it out inside him. "They put it back," he says simply. "Every day — in your arm instead of your hand because it's easier to hide. They concealed the marks with a gelatin prosthetic skin, so you wouldn't know. The last patch must have burned away when…well."

Her face is blank with horror, and she sways in place as if she is about to fall. He takes her hand and leads her to the table, sitting down and turning both chairs so they face each other, their knees almost touching. He holds both her hands in a fierce grip, for support, and to remind her that he is there with her.

He looks her straight in the eye, and tells her the whole, unvarnished truth.

The truth about how the attack on her was two-pronged.

The first, she more or less already knew. How they worked to convince her that her life was a delusion — to gain her trust and allow them to question her about her childhood, her power; the FBI, and Red himself, and she would hold nothing back. How they had stolen her possessions; faked photographs to confuse her memory; starved her of nutrients and manipulated her until she was completely malleable. How they had used what she told them to find and ransack Red's safe houses, hoping for information on the Fulcrum, or at least about Liz.

The second, they had hidden from her. And this is much more difficult for him to tell her. But he does, slowly and cautiously, reading her constantly for signs of danger.

How they had sedated her every day, and then used a combination of drugs and memory-manipulation therapy to try and recover her childhood knowledge of her parents; of the Fulcrum and where they might find it. How they had rifled through her brain like a file drawer, uncaring of the damage they might cause. How he still isn't sure what they might have found, or what danger awaits Liz as a result.

When he is done — for the time-being at least — out of words, she looks…destroyed. Her face is wet with tears, her breath short and choppy; yet at the same time her anger is sharp on the air, her eyes glimmering like coals, her hands shaking in his. He feels a sharp sting on his palm, and realizes that sparks are already flickering off her fingers.

"Outside," she manages to say, in a voice so choked it makes his throat ache in sympathy.

Able to feel the strength of her panic, he yanks her to her feet and pulls her out into the yard. She tugs her hands free and turns away from him to scream out her anguish, pain, misery.

A second later, a small fire burns cheerfully around her, keeping him away, grass caught by the flame she has become.

"Why?" she moans in agony. "Why that way? I thought…they told me…" She turns to him, blazing bright and so violently unhappy that he stumbles back from the force of it. "He said he _loved _me. That we…we w-were starting a _family,_ adopting a b-baby. They didn't have to say those things."

He wants desperately to hold her; he exerts all his power to wind calm and love around her in equal measure. As the flame slowly begins to draw inward and subside, she starts to cry, silent trickles that sizzle faintly against her skin.

"He kissed me, Red, and touched me. He would have taken me to some strange house and had _sex_ with me. _Why?"_

He clamps fiercely down on his rage, knowing it won't help her. He finds a vague sort of solace in the memory of shooting the flaming body of her torturer. Unable to stand her lonely despair anymore, he reaches out and pulls her into his arms, regardless of the remaining smouldering embers that halo her.

"I don't know, Lizzie," he murmurs into her hair, absorbing her pain with his own. "I cannot imagine a crueler violation." Feeling her shudder against him, he loses a touch of his grip on his enormous fury. "I'd kill him for you again, if I could. I'd take him apart piece by piece. I wish–"

"Don't," she cuts in, lips soft against his neck. "Don't let him hurt you, too." Flame completely gone now, she burrows into him, clinging tight. "Don't give him any more power over us."

"I'll try," he says, because it's over now, and her healing is the most important thing. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

He buries his face in her tangled hair, and breathes her in, her own fresh, citrusy scent shot through with a hint of smoke. They hold each other for a time, the relief at being together again soothing their wounded souls. He's honestly not sure how long it's been when she pulls loose to look at him.

"He touched me, and I can't bear it." she says softly. "I want it to be _you._ Kiss me now, and erase him forever."

He wants nothing more, he thinks, but he's not sure this is the right time; the right way. He touches her face lightly, and feels her need wash through him.

"Lizzie, I–"

"_Please,_ Red. Make me _yours."_

Unwilling to wait, to take a chance that he'll refuse her, she leans back in and kisses him, hoping.

The quiver that starts inside her as her lips brush against his is utterly unlike the sharp heat of the sparking flame — it's delicate like a feather across her skin. He is utterly unlike the other; mouth warm and soft, breath catching in surprise.

She keeps her eyes open to watch his flutter closed, to watch the lines of his face ease into pleasure. His mouth is gentle against hers, restrained, but he is gripping her upper arms tightly, so tightly it borders on painful.

She slides her own hands around him, along his back, urging him closer, wanting to feel the lines of his body against hers, strong and seeking. She shyly runs her tongue along his bottom lip, testing; wanting to be certain. His hands tighten further in reaction, the slight twinge sending a thrill through her as his mouth opens to hers, as his kiss becomes fierce and demanding.

She closes her eyes, then, and gives herself over to the discovery of him.

* * *

He hadn't been sure, but her simple, innocent gesture has undone him. Her kiss is tentative and irresistible; her scent, her taste, her overwhelming _need_ all wrap around him and pull him under. He returns her gesture as gently as he can manage, anchoring himself with a firm hold on her arms. At the touch of her inquisitive tongue, however, his self-imposed bonds snap free and he crushes her to him.

He doesn't think he will ever get enough of this — of her, sweet and eager against him, of the warmth of her enveloping him. He _must_ touch her; his hands find their way under the hem of her t-shirt and the silken heat of her skin is like nothing he has ever felt before.

She is resurrecting him, bit by bit, touch by touch — pieces of him he thought long dead; pieces of him he never knew existed. Not just the feel of her under his questing fingers, but all of her — her nimble thoughts and curious mind; the small smile she offers when she's pleased; the ferocity of her arguments for what she believes is right. The flash of flame in her eyes when her power burns, the graceful dance of her movements when she fights; the trust that she has given back to him. The scent of her, above all, her scent — he wishes he could curl around her and press her to him until it permeates his skin.

Her fingers dig enticingly into his back, her heat surrounding them both like a cloud. He revels in it — it's intoxicating when he has been alone for so long. He is hard and aching and his body is screaming for more, with a furious desperation that alarms him.

He manages to break their kiss — it takes more strength than he could have imagined — and focuses on calming the storm within, pressing his forehead to hers. When he can, when he's collected enough of his wits to be coherent, he opens his eyes to be sure that he hasn't hurt her.

Even knowing how lost he is, he is shocked at what he sees.

He has pushed her up against the wall of the house, caging her in; one hand flat against her back to pull her close, the other twisted into her hair, curved tight around her neck. Her eyes stare into his, bright and blue; her mouth is swollen and red and slick. Her shirt is pushed up between them, fingermarks on her ivory skin; his right leg is thrust between hers, driving into her.

They are both breathing hard, wildness flavouring the air all around them.

"Red," she says, and her voice is low and raspy and sends a pang straight to his groin. "What's wrong? Don't…don't stop."

He isn't able to feel shame, just a whispering of regret — and even _he_ can't tell if it's for the roughness of his actions, or for the need to stop them. He steps back from her — only a little, the little he can manage — finding a smile for her and straightening her shirt, smoothing her hair, sending her reassurance and affection.

"Nothing's wrong, Lizzie, nothing at all," he says, his own voice not quite right, still shaken by the power of what burned between them. "I just…there's no need to rush anything is there?"

Her hands are still wound into his shirt, so tightly that her knuckles hurt, so tightly that he can't move much. She has one moment of sickening doubt, but she can still feel the dig of his fingers in her skin; his body pressing into hers urgently, driving them both; his emotions a hot and enticing tangle in the air around them, touching her but not invading — it all gives her the courage to speak.

"I…I _want_, Red," she says simply, her heart still racing, her body yearning for mysterious new things. "More of this, more of you, of _us_. It's not about erasure at all — it's about you and I, it's about _need."_

Because _here_ are all the things that had been missing from the kisses of a stranger. _Here_ are heat and anticipation, quivering nerves and flux of feelings. _Here_ are all the things she wants but cannot name.

She trembles as she watches him close his eyes briefly, take a deep breath as if strengthening himself.

When he looks at her again, his eyes are burning as if it is _he_ that carries the flame and the hot coils of desire inside her wind tighter.

"Please don't doubt that I want you, too," he says in a low growl that makes her shiver. "But we have time, sweetheart, and I don't…I want you to be sure." He kisses her once more, hot and hard and short. "We _do_ need to be careful, Lizzie. And I think the lawn is still on fire."

She looks down, flushing, embarrassment filling her until he raises her face back to his with a gentle hand.

"I would gladly burn for you," he says huskily. "It's you that I don't want hurting."

She smiles for real, then, unable to doubt his sincerity when it surrounds her, seeping into her skin and forging yet another link between them.

* * *

**A/N:** I think I'm going to have to knock this up to an M rating when I post the next chapter, so apologies if anyone has to adjust their filters or whatever. Hopefully you'll want to stick with it, regardless:)


	10. Issue 20: Reconceptualize

She insists he leave the fire to her and go inside. Although he is reluctant, it seems important to her, so he does. He takes advantage of the time to construct a fresh meal for her. He watches out the window as she finds a bag of dirt in the shed in the corner of the yard and carefully smothers the small, cheerful blaze. Her motions are deft and efficient, and speak of long experience — his heart aches for her.

When she trails back inside, a little colour back in her cheeks from the exercise, she smiles at him ruefully.

"We'll have to reseed that patch of lawn," she says quietly. "Nothing will grow back after that."

"Don't worry about it," he says, guiding her to the table. "We'll take care of it, I promise."

He watches her eat — she doesn't seem to have an appetite anymore, so he stays to make sure she finishes. It's little enough, and she needs to build herself back up. He buries his worry for her deep within, so she doesn't sense it, but it will not disappear.

They head to the living room afterward, and she stops suddenly in shock at the sight of the piles of boxes and jumbled assortment of belongings.

"What on earth?" she says, bewildered at the chaos, which is so unlike Reddington.

He grins. "That side," he says, gesturing, "is everything we took from the Centre — we'll need to go through everything carefully, so we know exactly what happened. Everything else is Sam's."

She startles, clutching his hand. "But I thought…I thought they…"

"They ransacked your apartment completely — all we have left is what you had with you in your room. I'm so sorry for that, sweetheart. But I don't think they knew about Sam's storage unit. Dembe cleaned it out as soon as we realized you'd been robbed."

"It's…Red, _thank you." _She feels almost overwhelmed — her history, her life, not lost, but right here, waiting for her.

"You'll have to go through everything," he says, then looks at her, evaluating the emotions that cloud around her. "When you're ready."

She smiles at him, grateful beyond words for his ability to understand her. "Not now," she says. "But soon, I hope."

They sit together on the couch instead, sorting through the reams of paperwork Red and Dembe recovered from the Centre. She finds Dr Wilkes' notebook — he isn't at all certain she should read it, but she insists, curling up beside him and reading with a small furrow in her brow.

It doesn't take much longer to realize that she has been more deeply impacted by the drugs than they realized.

It comes as a shock, this time, with no warning at all. She's reading in relative peace, and he is monitoring her with a corner of his mind — he felt nothing at all before she flickered into flame once more.

She leaps away from him with surprising speed, but it's too late for the couch. He's on his feet a moment after her, slapping briskly at a smouldering patch on his trouser leg; smacking out the smoking part of the couch with a nearby cushion.

"Red, are you okay? I–I don't know what happened." Her voice is horrified and tragic both.

"Of course I am," he assures her calmly, settling a warm blanket of that same calm over her. "Don't worry yourself at all, sweetheart."

She laughs tearfully. "The couch is burnt. Your poor friend will soon have no house left at all."

"On the positive side," Red says thoughtfully, ushering her outside. "The floors are all ceramic. And that couch is ugly as sin."

She sits down on the fresh dirt she'd spread not two hours earlier, and buries her face in her hands. He sits down beside her, as close as he can manage.

"Lizzie, don't fret so," he says gently.

She raises her head to stare at him, her expression torn somewhere between disbelieving and appalled.

"Don't _fret? _Red, if I can't control this, I can't stay here, I–"

He exerts himself to send a soothing stroke of love over her, and she relaxes slightly.

"I have been wondering if suppressing the fire for so long would have…repercussions," he says. "It is a wild power by its nature; it would not take kindly to being forcibly controlled."

"But I control it," she replies. "As best as I can."

"That's different — it's a part of you. You and the fire are one, Elizabeth, that is what you must come to understand."

She is shimmering with a low heat now, trying to breathe deeply and find her mastery. "How can a part of myself act on its own?"

He considers this, then says, "You're at odds right now, out of synch. I think things will continue to be somewhat unpredictable until you come back together."

Her eyes are closed now, and she takes one, two more long, even breaths, and the flame disappears again. She opens her eyes again, and they are tired, worried, sad.

"If you're right," she says, "then I'm not safe to have here. I have to go, maybe a warehouse or something? I can't–"

The thought of her leaving him at all, when he has just gotten her back, is impossible. To have her leave him to go somewhere cold and remote to struggle alone is appalling; it is ludicrous.

"Nonsense," he says firmly, taking her still-hot hand in his. "You will stay right here with me." _Where you belong. _

"But, Red, I–"

"Don't forget," he cuts in, talking fast. "I can help you; help you to stay level until things get back to normal."

"I don't want to hurt you," she answers in a small voice.

"You let me worry about that," he says. "I've been taking care of myself for a long time."

She sighs and leans against him, resting her cheek on his shoulder. "Okay," she agrees — she doesn't want to leave him either, not at all. "We need to get some sand."

An interesting non sequitur. "Do we?"

"It's the best way to put out the flame — things I set alight, and…and me, too."

He stiffens. "I'm not going to bury you in sand, Elizabeth."

"You may have to," she says matter-of-factly. "If you can't, then…"

"All right," he says reluctantly. "If I absolutely have to, I will. Emergencies only."

"Thank you," she says quietly. "I just need to know you'll be safe."

"I feel the same way," he says, giving her a quick squeeze. "With both of us working so hard, it will be a snap."

She laughs, as he meant her to, then yawned heavily.

"Go on, have a rest," he says gently. "I know the flame is hard on you. I'll bring some ibuprofen."

He leaves her tucked up, so drained that she's already asleep, and settles back down with the records of her confinement, determined to find some way to help her.

* * *

He's completely absorbed for some time — when a scream shatters his concentration, he has no idea what time it is, or even _where _he is for a panicked moment. He's down the hall in an instant, inside the room just as she starts to sob.

She is sitting up in bed, her eyes wide as if she's awake, but curiously blank.

"Mama, Mama!" Her voice is high and frightened.

He stands at her side, hesitant to touch her now, her empty expression making him wary.

"Lizzie?"

She half-turns to him; blinks away tears.

_"Krasnyj, pomogite. Mama ne prosnetsya." _

She is trapped in her mind, he realizes — a nightmare, or a memory? If he wakes her — if he _can _wake her — will it help her, or make things immeasurably worse? Does he have a choice?

"Elizabeth, it's time to wake up." Stern, but level — he doesn't want to frighten her.

She is crying harder now, and his extremely rusty rudimentary Russian isn't up to the challenge of decoding her fuzzy wet words.

"Elizabeth, _wake up!" _Fear is making him clumsy.

_"Nye, ya _Mariya! _Mamaaaaa!" _

Terrified by her sobbing cries and worried that in her distress, the fire will burst out and make things a thousand times worse, he grips her shoulders and shakes her, _hard. _

_"Elizabeth. Wake. Up." _

Her head flips back and forth alarmingly with his shaking, and he halts himself in horror. She blinks and shakes her head a little, then looks at him, awareness back in her gaze.

"R–Red?"

_Oh, thank god. _

She looks confused and a little scared, but _herself _again.

_"Lizzie." _

Unable to stop himself, he yanks her to him, crushing her against his chest and rocking slightly. Her arms come around him and she rubs at his back tentatively.

"Red," she says, her voice muffled by his shirt. "What's wrong? Did something happen?"

He takes a deep, soothing breath of her, to settle and strengthen himself, then releases her, sitting down heavily on the chair still beside the bed.

"Do you remember anything from the last few minutes?"

She frowns at him, clearly clueless. "I was sleeping, and then you woke me up." She rubbed her neck absently. "Were you shaking me?"

"I'm sorry about that," he says, taking her hand, "I…I was frightened."

Surprise bubbles in the air between them.

_"You?" _she asks, clearly disbelieving.

"I couldn't reach you," he says unhappily. "I don't know if it was a dream or a memory, or _what _was happening, but you were too deeply inside it to hear me — at least, the real me."

"I don't understand," she falters, her hand tightening in his. "I don't remember anything like that. I just remember you, saying my name."

He looks so troubled that she becomes truly alarmed. "Wh–What's happening to me?"

He seems to regain some control over himself and offers her a half-smile.

"You've been through a lot," he says, calm again, though she can tell it's costing him. "There were bound to be…side effects. Whatever it is, we'll figure it out and we'll deal with it."

She nods, if a little doubtfully — she isn't as sure as he seems to be, but his confidence gives her strength.

"It's getting late," he says, checking his watch. "You had a good long rest, at least. Get up, and you can help me make dinner."

She smiles at that. "You know I can't cook."

He grins widely. "Then it's time you learned, sweetheart."

* * *

Lying in bed that night, she thinks she'd actually enjoyed cooking with him. He is a good teacher — instructive but not condescending, flexible, knowledgeable, and funny, too. And surprisingly (or _not _surprisingly) skilled; the dish they'd put together was absolutely delicious.

He hadn't even let her clean up, shooing her away to meditate outside before she tried to sleep again. Afterward, he'd entertained her with stories of his exploits as a young man, trying to make a name for himself in a dangerous world.

He is working so hard to help her. To keep her calm and centred, to make her believe that everything will be okay. All the while, repressing his own fear and worry so they don't affect her, _and _helping her control the fire.

He hadn't wanted to leave her alone to sleep, clearly worried about another…episode. _She, _on the other hand, was far more worried about losing control in her sleep and burning him alive.

She'd won.

She drifts off with a smile on her face, picturing his annoyed, resigned expression at her door.

Some time later, she wakes in a cold sweat, and is terrified to find herself alone in a dark, only vaguely familiar room. She'd been dreaming of Tom and walks in the park, kisses shared under a shady tree. At the last, though, he had turned to her, his face burning, distorted, ruined, crying out, _"Why, Liz?" _

For a long, sickening moment, she isn't sure which reality she is in; she flees her room without really thinking about it. Seeking, she stumbles into the next bedroom, gasping as if all the oxygen has vanished from the air.

When she sees Red, curled on his side, sleeping with a hand tucked under his cheek, the relief of it drops her to her knees beside the bed. She presses her forehead to the mattress, focusing on getting her breath back and returning her heartbeat to normal.

When she lifts her head to look at him again, needing to see him, it strikes her that he looks…rather sweet. She fills with a comforting warmth that overrides all the other feelings that she can't quite sort out. Fear over what's happening to her; a quiet guilt over the murder of her not-husband; relief that reality has reasserted itself; sorrow for a dream lost. But it makes her so _happy _just to kneel on the floor and watch him sleep and think about him — how his merest touch makes her tremble; how his smile lights up her soul.

_Is this what love is? _

She reaches out and traces a finger ever so lightly over his cheek. He smiles reflexively in his sleep, and her heart thumps almost painfully. She cannot bear the thought of any more doubt, of waking up again and thinking that _this _might be the dream.

She searches inward for the first time since her return, finding the fiery core that lives inside her. It is not its customary steady glow, but a ragged ball, torn, jagged, flickering so that it hurts to look at. She soothes it instinctively; remembering how Red uses his power to surround her in comfort and affection, she tries to do the same. It seems to work, at least a little, the turbulence slowing, the flickering dying down.

"Now listen," she whispers fiercely. "This man, Red — you're _not _to hurt him. He's _ours; _we have to look after him and keep him safe."

The flame brightens inside her and seems to be a little more complete. She sends more comfort — or tries to, hoping it's having an impact. She's still completely focused internally, kneeling on the floor, when a low rumble comes from the bed.

"Lizzie? Is something wrong?"

She rises up to look at him, touches his face again, lightly.

"Not exactly," she replies. "I just…I woke up and I was alone and it was so quiet. I just had to…make sure…" She ducks her head again, embarrassed now.

"Oh, sweetheart," he says, a little sadly. "Come here."

He shifts on the bed so that she has room to climb in beside him, then wraps her in his arms and floods her with warmth. _Love, _she thinks, _surely, this is love. _

"Red," she whispers shyly into his neck. "Kiss me?"

"You don't have to ask, you know," he says, a little amused, moving to take her mouth in a soft, lingering kiss.

She bolsters her courage when he pulls away.

"Is that better?"

"A little. But I mean…_ kiss me. _Be with me, Red — make me _yours, _so I can never doubt again."

Sleepy he might be, but her earnest plea jolts his system awake into an eager heat.

"Lizzie," he says, scrambling for control _(wait, wait) _. "I'm not sure–"

"But I am," she cuts in, and kisses him, light as a feather. "Be mine," she says simply. "Be mine as I am yours."

And he is lost.

* * *

She holds nothing back, her inexperience leaving her without artifice, without the skills in teasing and withholding that lovers use to manipulate. She simply gives herself over to him, wholehearted and enthusiastic; even the heated arousal he can feel from her is innocent and appealing.

It's intoxicating.

He knows he should slow them down, that she has no idea of the power she wields, of the effect that she has, of the things he wants. But her taste is so cleanly sweet, her eager mouth and clinging hands are so diverting. The sound she makes when he finally slides a hand along her torso to cup her breast is an epiphany.

And her skin — _gods above, _her skin — once he touches it, sliding a hand under her rumpled t-shirt, he can't stop, his hands roaming everywhere, stroking, coaxing, memorizing. She is warm, so warm, luckily not dangerously so, not yet. She arches under his touch, gasping in pleasure, pressing herself closer and closer as he breaks desperately away from her mouth to nip and nuzzle at her neck.

"Red," she says huskily, all sweet bewilderment, "I want…I want…I don't know, I don't know. _More_."

His hands clench briefly on her slim body; he consciously leaves a mark at the crook of her neck, sucking hard, _wanting _right along with her.

"I know, sweetheart," he murmurs into her skin, "I know. I've got you, I'll keep you safe, love."

He doesn't even know what he's saying; he hasn't been this lost in a woman in years…maybe not ever. She is shifting restlessly against him, instinctively seeking relief. He is so achingly hard he worries it will frighten her; tries to quiet her with soothing hands, but she mewls in protest.

"Please," she says, without knowing what she is asking for. _"Red… _"

He presses his face into her collarbone; draws a long, shuddering breath. He can do this. He can show her something of the beauty of love making, of the possibilities of passion, and hold himself in check.

"Let me touch you, sweetheart?" He makes it a question with some difficulty.

She draws back as much as she can to meet his eyes, her own a blazing blue like the heart of a flame.

"You _are,"_ she says wonderingly. "You're already touching me, and your hands, they're…it's so…it feels so _good_. Did you think I wanted you to stop?"

He laughs a little, kissing her sweet mouth, then turns them both deftly so she lies beneath him. "No, sweetheart, not that; never that. I don't know if I'll ever be able to stop," and his own honesty surprises him. "I want to give you pleasure, Lizzie, will you let me?"

She looks up at him, curious and unafraid, trusting and heartbreaking. "Oh yes," she says softly. "Oh, please."

He kisses her again, long and slow; watches her eyes flutter shut as he tastes her mouth. He watches her face as he traces the lines of her with one hand, resting his weight on his other side. She shivers under his touch, her body curving to follow his questing fingers. Her nipple stiffens most distractingly under his palm; he rubs, not to soothe, but to stimulate.

He lets himself taste her again; jaw, neck, the velvet hollow of her throat. She makes the most delightful sounds, surprised, aroused, needy. He slides his hand further, slipping under the waistband of her shorts, drawing his fingers along her hipbone, to the crease of her thigh, inward, to the centre of her.

He moves his head up in time to swallow the gasp she makes; happily drinks in her soft cries of discovery as he gently parts her folds, hot and slick with desire, to find her core, swollen and throbbing. He circles delicately, entranced by her; slides further to tease at her entrance.

_"Red," _she chokes, eyes wide and wondering, burning into him. _"Raymond. _What's happening to me?"

"Pleasure," he answers, _"passion. _Need, fulfillment, completion."

He presses a long finger into her, ever so slowly, thrilling at the way her eyes go blurry and blind. He pushes against her clit with his thumb, gently, gently, and she moans in surprised delight.

He strokes her, inside and out, with all the finesse he can muster, his own body aching, aching, as hers begins to tense. She trembles beneath him, her head turning restlessly on the pillow, closing her eyes, opening them again.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, "so beautiful, love. Let go, sweetheart, let yourself go. _Feel _it, let it come, darling."

His words seem to do their work, stoking the heat insider her to a pitch. Her legs kick in agitation, then stiffen as her back arches in the loveliest of curves. He struggles to keep separate the small part of his mind that watches the fire; it simmers, hot but not dangerous, as she keens in his embrace.

"That's it," he croons, overwhelmed by her. "That's right, Lizzie, let go now, that's it."

With deliberate precision, he adds a second finger to the first; finds the rough patch on her wall and slides against it, over and over again.

_"Oh," _she says, voice faint and bewildered. _"Oh." _

She splinters apart in his hands, crying out for him, clinging to him. Her core grips his fingers fiercely, coating him in moisture. He throbs painfully in response; watching her discover herself, receiving her first pleasure, is an agonizing euphoria. It takes a large amount of his strength not to strip her bare and drive madly into her; he focuses instead on her precious face, flushed and astonished.

He gently slips his hand free and drops into the bed beside her, pulling her shuddering body into his arms and holding her close through the aftershocks. She is truly the most beautiful thing he has ever seen, and he is swamped with love, admiration, adoration. He wants to pile the world at her feet; he wants to stay in this bed with her forever.

He settles, for the time being, for holding her close, curling around her protectively as her breath starts to even out. Her fingers twist tight in his t-shirt, her breath hot on his neck. She winds a leg around his; her closeness sends another pulse through his groin. He bites his lip, hoping he doesn't just go right through it.

"Red," she says dreamily, her voice husky and madly appealing. "Is that…I mean, that…"

She is _bewitching. _He meant only to give her a taste of passion, to introduce her to her own sensuality. But he thinks that it is _he _that has been swept away, that has been beguiled and enraptured.

"Yes," he says, his own voice just a rasp of sound. He doesn't really want to put it into words, to make something so beautiful into something clinical. He kisses her again, drowning in her. "You are perfect," he murmurs against her lips.

"I never thought I could feel so _much," _she whispers. "I don't…Things will never be the same, will they?"

This worries him, and he untangles them enough that he can get a good look at her face.

"Different, yes," he admits. "But hopefully, better. Are you all right, Lizzie?"

"Oh yes," she breathes, and smiles at him, breathtaking. "I'm…quite lovely, really. Are you…" She bites her lip, shy again. "You didn't…I mean…You _know _what I mean."

He suppresses a chuckle with some difficulty, and kisses her again, a firm stamp of possession.

"I'll be just fine," he says. "Just being able to touch you is everything I need."

"Oh, _Red," _she says again. "Raymond."

She yawns suddenly, obscuring whatever else she says.

"Sleep now," he says gently, gathering her to him. "I'm here."

"Don't leave," she mumbles, snuggling close. "Don't leave me."

"Never," he says, pressing his lips to her head, making it a vow, soul deep. "Never."

* * *

They fall into a routine, of sorts, together in the charming house in the mountains. Red is surprisingly easy to live with, and takes such care of her that she feels absolutely cherished. Their days are quiet — he conducts some business, she knows, but always while she is meditating or otherwise occupied, so she doesn't need to be bothered by it.

He finds an old punching bag among Sam's things and they set it up outside, so she can work out her frustrations and regain her control. Slowly, the fire starts to become hers once more — but though there are flare ups, it never endangers Red again, so she adds caring for it to her routine of control and management.

It leaves her more comfortable, more at ease with her power than she has ever been. Being surrounded by Red's warm affection at all times, even when he is busy elsewhere, also helps her make great strides toward healing.

They continue to share a bed, for the sanity of them both. He shows her new and fascinating things every night, revealing a side of herself she'd thought would lie dormant forever. He says it is about discovery, that he wants her to understand her own desires before they act on anything in an irretrievable way. She is enjoying the journey, and tries to be patient.

No matter what, he wraps himself around her as they sleep, so she can never doubt. So that even her dreams are safe and lovely. Waking up in his arms is a quiet joy that she will never tire of; she thinks he feels the same.

One day, he tells her something of his search for her. Of her grandfather.

She is angry, so angry, that he hadn't told her sooner. But it is undeniably true that their relationship has been a busy one, to say the least. She believes he only wants to protect her, and that he didn't hold back to hurt her.

And he apologized with an earnest sincerity, and a kiss that curled her toes. They will visit him, Red promises, as soon as it is safe for them to move again.

The only blight on this precious time is her memory, which continues to flare and falter, throwing her into fugue states with gradually increasing frequency. It scares her, particularly since she remains unaware of the episodes while she is in them. Although Red keeps a calm facade, she knows he is deeply worried.

She puts more time into meditation, and tries not to worry and make it worse.

One day, after a week or so, she feels strong enough to look through Sam's boxes and bundles. She focuses on the artifacts of her own early childhood, hoping idly that reliving good memories will help untangle her mind.

She's digging around in the earliest box when Red comes in, a pleased sort of accomplishment preceding him.

"I have good news," he says cheerfully. "The neurologist who attempted to recover your memories, Dr Orchard? I've spoken with her, and she's agreed to see you, to try and help undo the damage done. She didn't work for Wilkes willingly, but she still seems to feel badly that–" He pauses, realizing that she still isn't look at him. "Lizzie? Are you listening to me?"

"Mm-hm," she says absently. "That's good news, Red, it really is, but…"

Now she does turn to him, standing up with a worn and slightly singed stuffed bunny in her hands.

"Red, look."

"That's very nice, Lizzie," he says impatiently, annoyed that she isn't paying attention to what he's saying. "But I think your mental health is a little more important than–"

"It's the only thing I have from before the fire," she says, talking over him, unheeding.

She's fiddling with the toy in her hands as she speaks, and he looks at what she's doing, distracted now himself.

"I know where the Fulcrum is," she says. They both stare at the small black object she holds up between them.

"It's right here."

* * *

_Will Red and Liz find the answers they seek — past and present? Will Liz finally master the fire within? Will they stay safe from the evil that hunts them both? _

_Find out next time, in _**_Ember: Dreams of the Past_**


End file.
